UC-NRLF 


B    M    IDE    6^=12 


»*'^^***'^''''««a«^ 


"»^ 


A'^-?-HVAPMRY  WARD 


"-■S"*,. 


•    *•*  •      •        •    •      •      at 


»,  •  •  • »  •  •'  •  •  •    " 


ELEANOR 


Eleanor 


SI  Bobel 


BY 


MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER    Sr     BROTHERS 


Books  by 
Mrs.  HUMPHRY  WARD 


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Copyright,  1900,  by  Harpek  &  Brothbrs. 
All  rights  rtstrvtd. 


TO 

ITALY 

THE    BELOVED    AND    BEAUTIFUL, 

INSTRUCTRESS  OF  OUR  PAST, 

DELIGHT    OF    OUR    PRESENT, 

COMRADE   OF   OUR   FUTURE: — 

THE    HEART    OF    AN    ENGLISHWOMAN 

OFFERS  THIS  BOOK. 


257406 


PART  I 

'i  would  that  you  were  all  to  me. 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  ycurs  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free  I 
Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?      What  the  core 

C  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be?" 


ELEANOR 


CHAPTER    I 

"  ¥  ET  us  be  quite  clear,  Aunt  Pattie — when 
I  does  this  young  woman  arrive  ?" 
•■-^  "  In  about  half  an  hour.  But,  really,  Ed- 
ward you  need  take  no  trouble !  she  is  coming 
to  visit  me,  and  I  will  see  that  she  doesn't  get  in 
your  way.  Neither  you  nor  Eleanor  need  trouble 
your  heads  about  her." 

Miss  Manisty — a  small  elderly  lady  in  a  cap — 
looked  at  her  nephew  with  a  mild  and  deprecating 
air.  The  slight  tremor  of  the  hands,  which  were 
crossed  over  the  knitting  on  her  lap,  betrayed 
a  certain  nervousness ;  but  for  all  that  she  had 
the  air  of  managing  a  familiar  difficulty  in  familiar 
ways. 

The  gentleman  addressed  shook  his  head  im- 
patiently. 
"One  never  prepares  for  these  catastrophes 
I 


till  they  actually  arrive,"  he  muttered,  taking  up 
a  magazine  that  lay  on  the  table  near  him,  and 
restlessly  playing  with  the  leaves. 

"I  warned  you  yesterday." 

"And  I  forgot  —  and  was  happy.  Eleanor — 
what  are  we  going  to  do  with  Miss  Foster  ?" 

A  lady,  who  had  been  sitting  at  some  little 
distance,  rose  and  came  forward. 

"  Well,  I  should  have  thought  the  answer  was 
simple.  Here  we  are  fifteen  miles  from  Rome. 
The  trains  might  be  better — still  there  are  trains. 
Miss  Foster  has  never  been  to  Europe  before. 
Either  Aunt  Pattie's  maid  or  mine  can  take  her 
to  all  the  proper  things — or  there  are  plenty  of 
people  in  Rome — the  Westertons — the  Borrows? 
— who  at  a  word  from  Aunt  Pattie  would  fly  to 
look  after  her  and  take  her  about.  I  really  don't 
see  that  you  need  be  so  miserable  !" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  stood  looking  down  in  some 
amusement  at  the  aunt  and  nephew.  Edward 
Manisty,  however,  was  not  apparently  consoled 
by  her  remarks.  He  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  salon  in  a  disturbance  out  of  all  proportion 
to  its  cause.  And  as  he  walked  he  threw  out 
phrases  of  ill-humor,  so  that  at  last  Miss  Manisty, 
driven  to  defend  herself,  put  the  irresistible 
question — 

*'  Then  why — why — my  dear  Edward,  did  you 
make  me  invite  her?  For  it  was  really  his  do- 
ing— wasn't  it,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Yes — I  am  witness  !" 

**One   of   those    abominable    flashes    of   con- 

2 


science  that  have  so  much  to  answer  for  !"  said 
Manisty,  throwing  up  his  hand  in  annoyance.— 
"  If  she  had  come  to  us  in  Rome,  one  could  have 
provided  for  her.  But  here  in  this  solitude — just 
at  the  most  critical  moment  of  one's  work — and 
it's  all  very  well — but  one  can't  treat  a  young 
lady,  when  she  is  actually  in  one's  house,  as  if  she 
were  the  tongs !" 

He  stood  beside  the  window,  with  his  hands  on 
his  sides,  moodily  looking  out.  Thus  strongly 
defined  against  the  sunset  light,  he  would  have 
impressed  himself  on  a  stranger  as  a  man  no 
longer  in  his  first  youth,  extraordinarily  hand- 
some so  far  as  the  head  was  concerned,  but  of  a 
somewhat  irregular  and  stunted  figure ;  stunted 
however  only  in  comparison  with  what  it  had 
to  carry  ;  for  in  fact  he  was  of  about  middle 
height.  Bu'^  the  head,  face  and  shoulders  were 
all  remarkably  large  and  powerful ;  the  coloring 
— curly  btack  hair,  gray  eyes,  dark  complexion — 
singularly  vivid ;  and  the  lines  of  the  brow,  the 
long  nose,  the  energetic  mouth,  in  their  mingled 
force  and  perfection,  had  made  the  stimulus  of 
many  an  artist  before  now.  For  Edward  Manisty 
was  one  of  those  men  of  note  whose  portraits 
the  world  likes  to  paint:  and  this  "Olympian 
head  "  of  his  was  well  known  in  many  a  French 
and  English  studio,  through  a  fine  drawing  of 
it  made  by  Legros  when  Manisty  was  still  a 
youth  at  Oxford.  "  Begun  by  David— and  fin- 
ished by  Rembrandt,"  so  a  young  French  painter 
had  once  described  Edward  Manisty. 

3 


The  final  effect  of  this  discord,  however,  was 
an  effect  of  power — of  personality — of  something 
that  claimed  and  held  attention.  So  at  least  it 
was  described  by  Manisty's  friends.  Manisty's 
enemies,  of  whom  the  world  contained  no  small 
number,  had  other  words,  for  it.  But  women  in 
general  took  the  more  complimentary  view. 

The  two  women  now  in  his  company  were  clearly 
much  affected  by  the  force  —  wilfulness  —  ex- 
travagance— for  one  might  call  it  by  any  of  these 
names — that  breathed  from  the  man  before  them. 
Miss  Manisty,  his  aunt,  followed  his  movements 
with  her  small  blinking  eyes,  timidly  uneasy,  but 
yet  visibly  conscious  all  the  time  that  she  had 
done  nothing  that  any  reasonable  man  could  ra- 
tionally complain  of;  while  in  the  manner  tow- 
ards him  of  his  widowed  cousin  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
in  the  few  words  of  banter  or  remonstrance 
that  she  threw  him  on  the  subject  of  his  aunt's 
expected  visitor,  there  was  an  indulgence,  a 
deference  even,  that  his  irritation  scarcely  de- 
served. 

"At  least,  give  me  some  account  of  this  girl" — 
he  said,  breaking  in  upon  his  aunt's  explanations. 
"I  have  really  not  given  her  a  thought — and — 
good  heavens ! — she  will  be  here,  you  say,  in  half 
an  hour.  Is  she  young — stupid — pretty?  Has 
she  any  experience — any  conversation?" 

"  I  read  you  Ad^le's  letter  on  Monday,"  said 
Miss  Manisty,  in  a  tone  of  patience — "  and  I  told 
you  then  all  I  knew — but  I  noticed  you  didn't 
listen.     I  only  saw  her  myself  for  a  few  hours  at 

4. 


Boston.  I  remember  she  was  rather  good-look- 
ing— but  very  shy,  and  not  a  bit  like  all  the  other 
girls  one  was  seeing.  Her  clothes  were  odd,  and 
dowdy,  and  too  old  for  her  altogether, — which 
struck  me  as  curious,  for  the  American  girls, 
even  the  country  ones,  have  such  a  natural  turn 
for  dressing  themselves.  Her  Boston  cousins 
didn't  like  it,  and  they  tried  to  buy  her  things— 
but  she  was  difficult  to  manage — and  they  had  to 
give  it  up.  Still  they  were  very  fond  of  her,  I  re- 
member. Only  she  didn't  let  them  show  it  much. 
Her  manners  were  much  stiffer  than  theirs.  They 
said  she  was  very  countrified  and  simple — that 
she  had  been  brought  up  quite  alone  by  their  old 
uncle,  in  a  little  country  town — and  hardly  ever 
went  away  from  home." 

"And  Edward  never  saw  her?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,  with  a  motion  of  the  head  towards 
Manisty. 

"  No.  He  was  at  Chicago  just  those  days.  But 
you  never  saw  anything  like  the  kindness  of  the 
cousins!  Luncheons  and  dinners!" — Miss  Man- 
isty raised  her  little  gouty  hands — "  my  dear — 
when  we  left  Boston  I  never  wanted  to  eat  again. 
It  would  be  simply  indecent  if  we  did  nothing 
for  this  girl.  English  people  are  so  ungrateful 
this  side  of  the  water.  It  makes  me  hot  when  I 
think  of  all  they  do  for  us.'* 

The  small  lady's  blanched  and  wrinkled  face 
reddened  a  little  with  a  color  which  became  her. 
Manisty,  lost  in  irritable  reflection,  apparently 
took  no  notice. 

5 


"  fiut  why  did  they  send  her  out  ail  alone  ?*'  said 
Mrs.  Burgoyne.  *'  Couldn't  they  have  found  some 
family  for  her  to  travel  with?" 

"Well,  it  was  a  series  of  accidents.  She  did 
come  over  with  some  Boston  people — the  Porters 
— we  knew  very  well.  And  they  hadn't  been 
three  days  in  London  before  one  of  the  daughters 
developed  meningitis,  and  was  at  the  point  of 
death.  And  of  course  they  could  go  nowhere 
and  see  nothing — and  poor  Lucy  Foster  felt  her- 
self in  the  way.  Then  she  was  to  have  joined 
some  other  people  in  Italy,  and  they  changed 
their  plans.  And  at  last  I  got  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Porter — in  despair — asking  me  if  I  knew  of 
any  one  in  Rome  who  would  take  her  in  and  chap- 
eron her.  And  then — well,  then  you  know  the 
rest." 

And  the  speaker  nodded  again,  still  more  sig- 
nificantly, towards  her  nephew. 

"  No,  not  all,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  laughing. 
**  I  remember  he  telegraphed." 

"  Yes.  He  wouldn't  even  wait  for  me  to  write. 
No — *  Of  course  we  must  have  the  girl !'  he  said. 
*  She  can  join  us  at  the  villa.  And  they'll  want 
to  know,  so  I'll  wire.*  And  out  he  went.  And 
then  that  evening  I  had  to  write  and  ask  her 
to  stay  as  long  as  she  wished — and — well,  there 
it  is !" 

"  And  hence  these  tears,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 
"What  possessed  him?" 

"  Well,  I  think  it  was  conscience,"  said  the  lit- 
tle spinster,  plucking  up  spirit.     "  I  know  it  was 

6 


with  me.  There  had  been  some  Americans  call- 
ing on  us  that  day — you  remember — those  charm- 
ing Harvard  people?  And  somehow  it  recalled 
to  us  both  what  a  fuss  they  had  made  with 
us  —  and  how  kind  everybody  was.  At  least 
I  suppose  that  was  how  Edward  felt.  I  know 
I  did." 

Manisty  paused  in  his  walk.  For  the  first  time 
his  dark  whimsical  face  was  crossed  by  an  un- 
willing smile — slight  but  agreeable. 

"  It  is  the  old  story,"  he  said.  "  Life  would  be 
tolerable  but  for  one's  virtues.  All  this  time,  I 
beg  to  point  out,  Aunt  Pattie,  that  you  have  still 
told  us  nothing  about  the  young  lady — except 
something  about  her  clothes,  which  doesn't  mat- 
ter." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne's  amused  gesture  showed  the 
woman's  view  of  this  remark.  Miss  Manisty 
looked  puzzled. 

"  Well — I  don't  know.  Yes — I  have  told  you  a 
great  deal.  The  Lewinsons  apparently  thought 
her  rather  strange.  Adele  said  she  couldn't  tell 
what  to  be  at  with  her — you  never  knew  what 
she  would  like  or  dislike.  Tom  Lewinson  seems 
to  have  liked  her  better  than  Adele  did.  He  said 
*  there  was  no  nonsense  about  her — and  she  never 
kept  a  fellow  waiting.*  Adele  says  she  is  the 
oddest  mixture  of  knowledge  and  ignorance. 
She  would  ask  the  most  absurd  elementary  ques- 
tions— and  then  one  morning  Tom  found  out 
that  she  was  quite  a  Latin  scholar,  and  had  read 
Horace  and  Virgil,  and  all  the  rest." 

7 


**  Good  God  !"  said  Manisty  under  his  breath, 
resuming  his  walk. 

"  And  when  they  asked  her  to  play,  she  played 
— quite  respectably." 

"  Of  course : — two  hours*  practising  in  the  morn- 
ing— I  foresaw  it,"  said  Manisty,  stopping  short. 
"Eleanor,  we  have  been  like  children  sporting 
over  the  abyss !" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  rose  with  a  laugh — a  very  soft 
and  charming  laugh  —  by  no  means  the  least 
among  the  various  gifts  with  which  nature  had 
endowed  her. 

"  Oh,  civilization  has  resources,'*  she  said— 
"  Aunt  Pattie  and  I  will  take  care  of  you.  NoW 
we  have  got  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  dress  in. 
Only  first — one  must  really  pay  one's  respects  to 
this  sunset." 

And  she  stepped  out  through  an  open  door 
upon  a  balcony  beyond.  Then  turning,  with  a 
face  of  delight,  she  beckoned  to  Manisty,  who 
followed. 

"  Every  night  more  marvellous  than  the  last  "— 
she  said,  hanging  over  the  balustrade — "  and  one 
seems  to  be  here  in  the  high  box  of  a  theatre, 
with  the  sun  playing  pageants  for  our  particular 
benefit." 

Before  them,  beneath  them  indeed,  stretched 
a  scene,  majestic,  incomparable.  The  old  villa  in 
which  they  stood  was  built  high  on  the  ridge  of 
the  Alban  Hills.  Below  it,  olive  -  grounds  and 
vineyards,  plough-lands  and  pine -plantations 
sank,   slope  after  slope,  fold  after  fold,   to  the 

8 


Campagna.  And  beyond  the  Campagna,  along 
the  whole  shining  line  of  the  west,  the  sea  met 
the  sunset ;  while  to  the  north,  a  dim  and  scat- 
tered whiteness  rising  from  the  plain — was  Rome. 
The  sunset  was  rushing  to  its  height  through 
every  possible  phase  of  violence  and  splendor. 
From  the  Mediterranean,  storm  -  clouds  were 
rising  fast  to  the  assault  and  conquest  of  the 
upper  sky,  which  still  above  the  hills  shone 
blue  and  tranquil.  But  the  northwest  wind  and 
the  sea  were  leagued  against  it.  They  sent  out 
threatening  fingers  and  long  spinning  veils  of 
cloud  across  it  —  skirmishers  that  foretold  the 
black  and  serried  lines,  the  torn  and  monstrous 
masses  behind.  Below  these  wild  tempest  shapes, . 
again, — in  long  spaces  resting  on  the  sea — the 
heaven  was  at  peace,  shining  in  delicate  greens 
and  yellows,  infinitely  translucent  and  serene, 
above  the  dazzling  lines  of  water.  Over  Rome 
itself  there  was  a  strange  massing  and  curving 
of  the  clouds.  Between  their  blackness  and  the 
deep  purple  of  the  Campagna,  rose  the  city — pale 
phantom  —  upholding  one  great  dome,  and  one 
only,  to  the  view  of  night  and  the  world.  Round 
and  above  and  behind,  beneath  the  long  flat 
arch  of  the  storm,  glowed  a  furnace  of  scarlet 
light.  The  buildings  of  the  city  were  faint  specks 
within  its  fierce  intensity,  dimly  visible  through  a 
sea  of  fire.  St.  Peter's  alone,  without  visible  foun- 
dation or  support,  had  consistence,  form,  identity. 
— And  between  the  city  and  the  hills,  waves  of  blue 
and  purple  shade,  forerunners  of  the  night,  stole 
B  9 


over  the  Campagna  towards  the  higher  ground. 
But  the  hills  themselves  were  still  shining,  still 
clad  in  rose  and  amethyst,  caught  in  gentler  repe- 
tition from  the  wildness  of  the  west.  Pale  rose 
even  the  olive-gardens  ;  rose  the  rich  brown  fal- 
lows, the  emerging  farms ;  while  drawn  across  the 
Campagna  from  north  to  south,  as  though  some 
mighty  brush  had  just  laid  it  there  for  sheer  lust 
of  color,  sheer  joy  in  the  mating  it  with  the  rose, 
— one  long  strip  of  sharpest,  purest  green. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  turned  at  last  from  the  great 
spectacle  to  her  companion. 

"One  has  really  no  adjectives  left,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  had  used  mine  up  within  a  week." 

"  It  still  gives  you  so  much  pleasure?"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  a  little  askance. 

Her  face  changed  at  once. 

"And  you?  —  you  are  beginning  to  be  tired 
of  it  ?" 

"  One  gets  a  sort  of  indigestion. — Oh !  I  shall  be 
all  right  to-morrow." 

Both  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  re- 
sumed.— 

"I  met  General  Fenton  in  the  Borgia  rooms 
this  morning." 

She  turned,  with  a  quick  look  of  curiosity. 

"Well?" 

"  I  hadn't  seen  him  since  I  met  him  at  Simla 
three  years  ago.  I  always  found  him  particu- 
larly agreeable  then.  We  used  to  ride  together 
and  talk  together, — and  he  put  me  in  the  way  of 
seeing  a  good  many  things.     This  morning  he 

lO 


received  me  with  a  change  of  manner— I  can*t 
exactly  describe  it  ;  but  it  was  not  flattering  : 
So  I  presently  left  him  to  his  own  devices  and 
went  on  into  another  room.  Then  he  followed 
me,  and  seemed  to  wish  to  talk.  Perhaps  he  per- 
ceived that  he  had  been  unfriendly,  and  thought 
he  would  make  amends.  But  I  was  rather  short 
with  him.  We  had  been  real  friends  ;  we  hadn't 
met  for  three  years  ;  and  I  thought  he  might 
have  behaved  differently.  He  asked  me  a  num- 
ber of  questions,  however,  about  last  year,  about 
my  resignation,  and  so  forth  ;  and  I  answered  as 
little  as  I  could.  So  presently  he  looked  at  me 
and  laughed — '  You  remind  me,'  he  said,  '  of 
what  somebody  said  of  Peel — that  he  was  bad  to 
go  up  to  in  the  stable  ! — But  what  on  earth  are 
you  in  the  stable  for? — and  not  in  the  running?'  " 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  smiled. 

"  He  was  evidently  bored  with  the  pictures !" 
she  said,  dryly. 

Manisty  gave  a  shrug.  "  Oh  !  I  let  him  off.  I 
wouldn't  be  drawn.  I  told  him  I  had  expressed 
myself  so  much  in  public  there  was  nothing 
more  to  say.  '  H'm,'  he  said,  *  they  tell  me  at  the 
Embassy  you're  writing  a  book  !'  You  should 
have  seen  the  little  old  fellow's  wizened  face — and 
the  scorn  of  it !  So  I  inquired  whether  there  was 
any  objection  to  the  writing  of  books.  *  Yes  !' — 
he  said — '  when  a  man  can  do  a  d d  sight  bet- 
ter for  himself — as  you  could  !  Every  one  tells 
me  that  last  year  you  had  the  ball  at  your  feet.' 
'  Well,'— I  said— and  I  kicked  it— and  am  still  kick; 
II 


ing  it — in  my  own  way.  It  mayn't  be  yours— or 
anybody  else's — but  wait  and  see.'  He  shook  his 
head.  *A  man  with  what  were  your  prospects 
can't  afford  escapades.  It's  all  very  well  for  a 
Frenchman;  it  don't  pay  in  England.'  So  then 
I  maintained  that  half  the  political  reputations  of 
the  present  day  were  based  on  escapades.  *  Whom 
do  you  mean  ?' — he  said — '  Randolph  Churchill  ? 
— But  Randolph's  escapades  were  always  just 
what  the  man  in  the  street  understood.  As 
for  your  escapade,  the  man  in  the  street  can't 
make  head  or  tail  of  it.  That's  just  the  differ- 
ence." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  laughed  —  but  rather  impa- 
tiently. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  when  General  Fenton 
ever  considered  the  man  in  the  street !" 

''Not  at  Simla  certainly  There  you  may  de- 
spise him. — But  the  old  man  is  right  enough  as 
to  the  part  he  plays  in  England. — I  gathered 
that  all  my  old  Indian  friends  thought  I  had 
done  for  myself.  There  was  no  sympathy  for 
me  anywhere.  Oh  ! — as  to  the  cause  I  upheld — 
yes.     But  none  as  to  the  mode  of  doing  it." 

"Well — there  is  plenty  of  sympathy  elsewhere  ! 
What  does  it  matter  what  dried-up  officials  like 
General  Fenton  choose  to  think  about  it  ?" 

"  Nothing — so  long  as  there  are  no  doubts  in- 
side to  open  the  gates  to  the  General  Fentons 
outside !" 

He  looked  at  her  oddly  —  half  smiling,  half 
♦frowning. 


"The  doubts  are  traitors.  Send  them  to  ex- 
ecution !" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  sentence  we  came 
across  yesterday  in  Chateaubriand's  letters 'As 
to  my  career — I  have  gone  from  shipwreck  to 
shipwreck.'  What  if  I  am  merely  bound  on  the? 
same  charming  voyage  ?" 

"  I  accept  the  comparison,"  she  said  with  vi- 
vacity. *'  End  as  he  did  in  re-creating  a  church, 
and  regenerating  a  literature — and  see  who  will 
count  the  shipwrecks  \" 

K^er  hand's  disdainful  gesture  completed  the 
sally. 

Manisty's  face  dismissed  its  shadow. 

As  she  stood  beside  him,  in  the  rosy  light — so 
proudly  confident — Eleanor  Burgoyne  was  very 
delightful  to  see  and  hear.  Manisty,  one  of  the 
subtlest  and  most  fastidious  of  observers,  was 
abundantly  conscious  of  it.  Yet  she  was  not 
beautiful,  except  in  the  judgment  of  a  few  excep- 
tional people,  to  whom  a  certain  kind  of  grace — 
very  rare,  and  very  complex  in  origin — is  of  more 
importance  than  other  things.  The  eyes  were, 
indeed,  beautiful ;  so  was  the  forehead,  and  the 
hair  of  a  soft  ashy  brown  folded  and  piled  round 
it  in  a  most  skilful  simplicity.  But  the  rest  of  the 
face  was  too  long  ;  and  its  pallor,  the  singularly 
dark  circles  round  the  eyes,  the  great  thinness  of 
the  temples  and  cheeks,  together  with  the  emaci- 
ation of  the  whole  delicate  frame,  made  a  rather 
painful  impression  on  a  stranger.    It  was  a  face  of 

13 


experience,  a  face  of  grief ;  timid,  yet  with  many 
strange  capacities  and  suggestions  both  of  vehe- 
mence and  pride.  It  could  still  tremble  into 
youth  and  delight.  But  in  general  it  held  the 
world  aloof.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  not  very  far 
from  thirty,  and  either  physical  weakness,  or  the 
presence  of  some  enemy  within  more  destructive 
still,  had  emphasiz'cd  the  loss  of  youth.  At  the 
same  time  she  had  still  a  voice,  a  hand,  a  carriage 
that  lovelier  women  had  often  envied,  discerning 
in  them  those  subtleties  of  race  and  personality 
which  are  not  to  be  rivalled  for  the  asking. 

To-night  she  brought  all  her  charm  to  bear 
upon  her  companion's  despondency,  and  suc- 
ceeded as  she  had  often  succeeded  before.  She 
divined  that  he  needed  flattery,  and  she  gave  it ; 
that  he  must  be  supported  and  endorsed' and  she 
had  soon  pushed  General  Fenton  out  of  sight  be- 
hind a  cloud  of  witness  of  another  sort. 

Manisty's  mood  yielded  ;  and  in  a  short  time 
he  was  again  no  less  ready  to  admire  the  sunset 
than  she  was. 

"  Heavens  !"  she  said  at  last,  holding  out'  her 
watch. — "  Just  look  at  the  time — and  Miss  Fos- 
ter !" 

Manisty  struck  his  hand  against  the  railing. 

*'  How  is  one  to  be  civil  about  this  visit !  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  unfortunate.  These  last  crit- 
ical weeks — and  each  of  us  so  dependent  on  the 
other — Really  it  is  the  most  monstrous  folly  on 
all  our  parts  that  we  should  have  brought  thi§ 
girl  upon  us." 

U 


"Poor  Miss  Foster!"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  rais- 
ing her  eyebrows.  "  But  of  course  you  won't  be 
civil  I — Aunt  Pattie  and  I  know  that.  When  I 
think  of  what  I  went  through  that  first  fort- 
night— " 

"Eleanor!" 

"  You  are  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  that  could 
sit  silent  through  a  whole  meal.  By  to-morrow 
Miss  Foster  will  have  added  that  experience  to 
her  collection.  Well — I  shall  be  prepared  with 
my  consolations — there's  the  carriage — and  the 
bell !" 

They  fled  in-doors,  escaping  through  the  side 
entrances  of  the  salon,  before  the  visitor  could  be 
shown  in. 

"  Must  I  change  my  dress  ?** 

The  voice  that  asked  the  question  trembled 
with  agitation  and  fatigue.  But  the  girl  who 
owned  the  voice  stood  up  stiffly,  looking  at  Miss 
Manisty  with  a  frowning,  almost  a  threatening 
shyness. 

"  Well,  ray  dear,"  said  Miss  Manisty,  hesitating. 
"  Are  you  not  rather  dusty  ?  We  can  easily  keep 
dinner  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

She  looked  at  the  gray  alpaca  dress  before  her, 
in  some  perplexity. 

"Oh,  very  well" — said  the  girl  hurriedly. — "Of 
course  I'll  change.  Only" — and  the  voice  flut- 
tered again  evidently  against  her  will — "  I'm 
afraid  I  haven't  anything  very  nice.  I  must  get 
something  in  Rome.     Mrs.  Lewinson  advised  me 

IS 


This  is  my  afternoon  dress, — I've  been  wearing  it 
in  Florence.  But  of  course— I'll  put  on  my  other. 
— Oh !  please  don't  send  for  a  maid.  I'd  rather 
unpack  for  myself — so  much  rather!" 

The  speaker  flushed  crimson,  as  she  saw  Miss 
Manisty's  maid  enter  the  room  in  answer  to  her 
mistress's  ring.  She  stood  up  indeed  with  her 
hand  grasping  her  trunk,  as  though  defending  it 
from  an  assailant. 

The  maid  looked  at  her  mistress.  "  Miss  Foster 
will  ring,  Benson,  if  she  wants  you" — said  Miss 
Manisty ;  and  the  black -robed  elderly  maid, 
breathing  decorous  fashion  and  the  ways  of  "the 
best  people,"  turned,  gave  a  swift  look  at  Miss 
Foster,  and  left  the  room. 

"Are  you  sure,  my  dear?  You  know  she  would 
make  you  tidy  in  no  time.  She  arranges  hair 
beautifully." 

"  Oh  quite — quite  sure  ! — thank  you,"  said  the 
girl  with  the  same  eagerness.  "  I  will  be  ready, 
— right  away." 

Then,  left  to  herself.  Miss  Foster  hastily  opened 
her  box  and  took  out  some  of  its  contents.  She 
unfolded  one  dress  after  another, — and  looked  at 
them  unhappily. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  let  Cousin  Izza  give 
me  those  things  in  Boston,"  she  thought.  "  Per- 
haps I  was  too  proud.  And  that  money  of  Uncle 
Ben's — it  might  have  been  kinder — after  all  he 
wanted  me  to  look  nice  " — 

She  sat  ruefully  on  the  ground  beside  her  trunk, 
turning  the  things  over,  in  a  misery  of  annoyance 
i6 


and  mortification ;  half  inclined  to  laugh  too  as 
she  remembered  the  seamstress  in  the  small  New 
England  country  town,  who  had  helped  her  own 
hands  to  manufacture  them.  "Well,  Miss  Lucy, 
your  uncle's  done  real  handsome  by  you.  I  guess 
he's  set  you  up,  and  no  mistake.  There's  no 
meanness  about  him!" 

And  she  saw  the  dress  on  the  stand — the  little 
blond  withered  head  of  the  dressmaker  —  the 
spectacled  eyes  dwelling  proudly  on  the  master- 
piece before  them. — 

Alack!  There  rose  up  the  memory  of  little 
Mrs.  Lewinson  at  Florence — of  her  gently  pursed 
lips — of  the  looks  that  were  meant  to  be  kind, 
and  were  in  reality  so  critical. 

No  matter.  The  choice  had  to  be  made ;  and 
she  chose  at  last  a  blue  and  white  check  that 
seemed  to  have  borne  its  travels  better  than  the 
rest.  It  had  looked  so  fresh  and  striking  in  the 
window  of  the  shop  whence  she  had  bought  it. 
"And  you  know.  Miss  Lucy,  you're  so  tall,  you 
can  stand  them  chancy  things  ' — her  little  friend 
had  said  to  her,  when  she  had  wondered  whether 
the  check  might  not  be  too  large. 

And  yet  only  with  a  passing  wonder.  She  could 
not  honestly  say  that  her  dress  had  cost  her  much 
thought  then  or  at  any  other  time.  She  had 
been  content  to  be  very  simple,  to  admire  other 
girls'  cleverness.  There  had  been  influences  upon 
her  own  childhood,  however,  that  had  somehow 
separated  her  from  the  girls  around  her,  had  made 
it  difficult  for  her  to  think  and  plan  as  they  did. 
17 


She  rose  with  the  dress  in  her  hands,  and  as  she 
did  so,  she  caught  the  glory  of  the  sunset  through 
the  open  window. 

She  ran  to  look,  all  her  senses  flooded  with  the 
sudden  beauty, — when  she  heard  a  man's  voice  as 
it  seemed  close  beside  her.  Looking  to  the  left, 
she  distinguished  a  balcony,  and  a  dark  figure 
that  had  just  emerged  upon  it. 

Mr.  Manisty — no  doubt  I  She  closed  her  window 
hurriedly,  and  began  her  dressing,  trying  at  the 
time  to  collect  her  thoughts  on  the  subject  of 
these  people  whom  she  had  come  to  visit. 

Yet  neither  the  talk  of  her  Boston  cousins,  nor 
the  gossip  of  the  Lewinsons  at  Florence  had  left 
any  very  clear  impression.  She  remembered  well 
her  first  and  only  sight  of  Miss  Manisty  at  Bos- 
ton. The  little  spinster,  so  much  a  lady,  so  kind, 
cheerful  and  agreeable,  had  left  a  very  favorable 
impression  in  America.  Mr.  Manisty  had  left  an 
impression  too — that  was  certain — for  people  talk- 
ed of  him  perpetually.  Not  many  persons,  how- 
ever, had  liked  him  it  seemed.  She  could  re- 
member, as  it  were,  a  whole  track  of  resentments, 
hostilities,  left  behind.  "  He  cares  nothing  about 
us" — an  irate  Boston  lady  had  said  in  her  hearing 
— "  but  he  will  exploit  us !  He  despises  us, — but 
he'll  make  plenty  of  speeches  and  articles  out  of 
us — you'll  see!" 

As  for  Major  Lewinson,  the  husband  of  Mr. 

Manisty's  first  cousin, — she  had  been  conscious  all 

the  time  of  only  half  believing  what  he  said,  of 

holding  out  against  it.     He  must  be  so.  different 

i8 


from  Mr.  Manisty — the  little  smart,  quick-tem- 
pered soldier — with  his  contempt  for  the  undis- 
ciplined civilian  way  of  doing  things.  She  did 
not  mean  to  remember  his  remarks.  For  after 
all,  she  had  her  own  ideas  of  what  Mr.  Manisty 
would  be  like.  She  had  secretly  formed  her  own 
opinion.  He  had  been  a  man  of  letters  and  a 
traveller  before  he  entered  politics.  She  remem- 
bered— nay,  she  would  never  forget — a  volume 
of  letters  from  Palestine,  written  by  him,  which 
had  reached  her  through  the  free  library  of  the 
little  town  near  her  home.  She  who  read  slowly 
but,  when  she  admired,  with  a  silent  and  worship- 
ping ardor,  had  read  this  book,  had  hidden  it 
under  her  pillow,  had  been  haunted  for  days  by 
its  pliant,  sonorous  sentences,  by  the  color,  the 
perfume,  the  melancholy  of  pages  that  seemed 
to  her  dreaming  youth  marvellous,  inimitable. 
There  were  descriptions  of  a  dawn  at  Bethlehem — 
a  night  wandering  at  Jerusalem — a  reverie  by  the 
Sea  of  Galilee — the  very  thought  of  which  made 
her  shiver  a  little,  so  deeply  had  they  touched 
her  young  and  pure  imagination. 

And  then— people  talked  so  angrily  of  his  quar- 
rel with  the  government —  and  his  resigning. 
They  said  he  had  been  foolish,  arrogant,  unwise. 
Perhaps.  But  after  all  it  had  been  to  his  own 
hurt— it  must  have  been  for  principle.  So  far 
the  girl's  secret  instinct  was  all  on  his  side. 

Meanwhile,  as  she  dressed,  there  floated  through 
her  mind  fragments  of  what  she  had  been  told  as 
to    his  strange  personal  beauty ;    but  these  shQ 
19 


only  entertained  shyly  and  in  passing.  She  had 
been  brought  up  to  think  little  of  such  matters, 
or  rather  to  avoid  thinking  of  them. 

She  went  through  her  toilet  as  neatly  and  rap- 
idly as  she  could,  her  mind  all  the  time  so  full 
of  speculation  and  a  deep  restrained  excitement 
that  she  ceased  to  trouble  herself  in  the  least 
about  her  gown. 

As  for  her  hair  she  arranged  it  almost  mechan- 
ically, caring  only  that  its  black  masses  should 
be  smooth  and  in  order.  She  fastened  at  her 
throat  a  small  turquoise  brooch  that  had  been 
her  mother's;  she  clasped  the  two  little  chain 
bracelets  that  were  the  only  ornaments  of  the 
kind  she  possessed,  and  then  without  a  single 
backward  look  towards  the  reflection  in  the  glass, 
she  left  her  room — her  heart  beating  fast  with 
timidity  and  expectation. 

"  Oh  !  poor  child — poor  child ! — what  a  frock  !" 

Such  was  the  inward  ejaculation  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  as  the  door  of  the  salon  was  thrown  open 
by  the  Italian  butler,  and  a  very  tall  girl  came 
abruptly  through,  edging  to  one  side  as  though 
she  were  trying  to  escape  the  servant,  and  look- 
ing anxiously  round  the  vast  room. 

Manisty  also  turned  as  the  door  opened.  Miss 
Manisty  caught  his  momentary  expression  of 
wonder,  as  she  herself  hurried  forward  to  meet 
the  new-comer. 

"You  have  been  very  quick,  my  dear,  and  I  am 
sure  you  must  be  hungry. — This  is  an  old  friend 
20 


of  ours — Mrs.  Burgoyne — my  nephew — Edward 
Manisty.  He  knows  all  your  Boston  cousins,  if 
not  you.  Edward,  will  you  take  Miss  Foster? 
— she's  the  stranger." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  pressed  the  girl's  hand  with  a 
friendly  effusion.  Beyond  her  was  a  dark-haired 
man,  who  bowed  in  silence.  Lucy  Foster  took 
his  arm,  and  he  led  her  through  a  large  interven- 
ing room,  in  which  were  many  tables  and  many 
books,  to  the  dining-room. 

On  the  way  he  muttered  a  few  embarrassed 
words  as  to  the  weather  and  the  lateness  of  din- 
ner, walking  meanwhile  so  fast  that  she  had  to 
hurry  after  him.  "Good  Heavens,  why  she  is 
a  perfect  chess-board!"  he  thought  to  himself, 
looking  askance  at  her  dress,  in  a  sudden  and 
passionate  dislike  —  "one  could  play  draughts 
upon  her.     What  has  my  aunt  been  about?" 

The  girl  looked  round  her  in  bewilderment  as 
they  sat  down.  What  a  strange  place !  The 
salon  in  her  momentary  glance  round  it  had 
seemed  to  her  all  splendor.  She  had  been  dimly 
aware  of  pictures,  fine  hangings,  luxurious  car- 
pets. Here  on  the  other  hand  all  was  rude  and 
bare.  The  stained  walls  were  covered  with  a 
series  of  tattered  daubs,  that  seemed  to  be  meant 
for  family  portraits — of  the  Malestrini  family 
perhaps,  to  whom  the  villa  belonged  ?  And  be- 
tween the  portraits  there  were  rough  modern 
doors  everywhere  of  the  commonest  wood  and 
manufacture  which  let  in  all  the  draughts,  and 
made  the  room  not  a  room,  but  a  passage.    The 

31 


uneven  brick  floor  was  covered  in  the  centre 
ivith  some  thin  and  torn  matting ;  many  of  the 
chairs  ranged  against  the  wall  were  broken;  and 
the  old  lamp  that  swung  above  the  table  gave 
hardly  any  light. 

Miss  Manisty  watched  her  guest's  face  with  a 
look  of  amusement. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  our  dining-room, 
my  dear?  I  wanted  to  clean  it  and  put  it  in  or- 
der. But  my  nephew  there  wouldn't  have  a  thing 
touched." 

She  looked  at  Manisty,  with  a  movement  of  the 
lips  and  head  that  seemed  to  implore  him  to 
make  some  efforts. 

Manisty  frowned  a  little,  lifted  his  great  brow 
and  looked  not  at  Miss  Foster  but  at  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne — 

'*  The  room,  as  it  happens,  gives  me  more  pleas- 
ure than  any  other  in  the  villa." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  laughed. 

"Because  it's  hideous?" 

"  If  you  like.  I  should  only  call  it  the  natural, 
untouched  thing." 

Then  while  his  aunt  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  made 
mock  of  him,  he  fell  silent  again,  nervously  crum- 
bling his  bread  with  a  large  wasteful  hand.  Lucy 
Foster  stole  a  look  at  him,  at  the  strong  curls  of 
black  hair  piled  above  the  brow,  the  moody  em- 
barrassment of  the  eyes,  the  energy  of  the  lips 
and  chin. 

Then  she  turned  to  her  companions.  Sud- 
denly the  girl's  clear  brown  skin  flushed  rosily 

22 


and  she  abruptly  took  her  eyes  from  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne. 

Miss  Manisty  however — in  despair  of  her  neph- 
ew— was  bent  upon  doing  her  own  duty.  She 
asked  all  the  proper  questions  about  the  girl's 
journey,  about  the  cousins  at  Florence,  about  her 
last  letters  from  home.  Miss  Foster  answered 
quickly,  a  little  breathlessly,  as  though  each  ques- 
tion were  an  ordeal  that  had  to  be  got  through. 
And  once  or  twice,  in  the  course  of  the  conversa- 
tion she  looked  again  at  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  more  lin- 
geringly  each  time.  That  lady  wore  a  thin  dress 
gleaming  with  jet.  The  long  white  arms  showed 
under  the  transparent  stuff.  The  slender  neck 
and  delicate  bosom  were  bare, — too  bare  surely, — 
that  was  the  trouble.  To  look  at  her  filled  the 
girl's  shrinking  Puritan  sense  with  discomfort. 
But  what  small  and  graceful  hands ! — and  how 
she  used  them  ! — how  she  turned  her  neck ! — how 
delicious  her  voice  was  !  It  made  the  new-comer 
think  of  some  sweet  plashing  stream  in  her 
own  Vermont  valleys.  And  then,  every  now  and 
again,  how  subtle  and  startling  was  the  change 
of  look ! — the  gayety  passing  in  a  moment,  with 
the  drooping  of  eye  and  mouth,  into  something 
sad  and  harsh,  like  a  cloud  dropping  round  a 
goddess.  In  her  elegance  and  self-possession  in- 
deed, she  seemed  to  the  girl  a  kind  of  goddess — 
heathenishly  divine,  because  of  that  mixture  of 
unseemliness,  but  still  divine. 

Several  times  Mrs.  Burgoyne  addressed  her — 
with  a  gentle  courtesy — and  Miss  Foster  answer- 
23 


ed.  She  was  shy,  but  not  at  all  awkward  or  con- 
scious. Her  manner  had  the  essential  self-pos- 
session which  is  the  birthright  of  the  American 
woman.  But  it  suggested  reserve,  and  a  curious 
absence  of  any  young  desire  to  make  an  effect. 

As  for  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  long  before  dinner  was 
over,  she  had  divined  a  great  many  things  about 
the  new-comer,  and  among  them  the  girl's  dis- 
approval of  herself.  "  After  all" — she  thought — 
"if  she  only  knew  it,  she  is  a  beauty.  What  a 
trouble  it  must  have  been  first  to  find,  and  then 
to  make  that  dress  ! — 111  luck ! — And  her  hair  ! 
Who  on  earth  taught  her  to  drag  it  back  like 
that?  If  one  could  only  loosen  it,  how  beautiful 
it  would  be!  What  is  it?  Is  it  Puritanism?  Has 
she  been  brought  up  to  go  to  meetings  and  sit 
under  a  minister?  Were  her  forbears  married 
in  drawing-rooms  and  under  trees?  The  Fates 
were  certainly  frolicking  when  they  brought  her 
here !     How  am  I  to  keep  Edward  in  order?" 

And  suddenly,  with  a  little  signalling  of  eye 
and  brow,  she  too  conveyed  to  Manisty,  who  was 
looking  listlessly  towards  her,  that  he  was  behav- 
ing as  badly  as  even  she  could  have  expected. 
He  made  a  little  face  that  only  she  saw,  but  he 
turned  to  Miss  Foster  and  began  to  talk, — ^all  the 
time  adding  to  the  mountain  of  crumbs  beside 
him,  and  scarcely  waiting  to  listen  to  the  girl's 
answers. 

"You  came  by  Pisa?" 

"  Yes.     Mrs.  Lewinson  found  me  an  escort — " 

"It  was  a  mistake  —  "he  said,  hurrying  his 
24 


words  like  a  school-boy.  "You  should  have  come 
by  Perugia  and  Spoleto.     Do  you  know  Spello?" 

Miss  Foster  stared. 

"Edward!"  said  Miss  Manisty,  "how  could  she 
have  heard  of  Spello?  It  is  the  first  time  she  has 
ever  been  in  Italy." 

"  No  matter !"  he  said,  and  in  a  moment  his 
moroseness  was  lit  up,  chased  away  by  the  little 
pleasure  of  his  own  whim — "  Some  day  Miss  Fos- 
ter must  hear  of  Spello.  May  I  not  be  the  first 
person  to  tell  her  that  she  should  see  Spello?" 

"  Really,  Edward  !"  cried  Miss  Manisty,  looking 
at  him  in  a  mild  exasperation. 

"  But  there  was  so  much  to  see  at  Florence !" 
said  Lucy  Foster,  wondering. 

"  No — pardon  me  ! — there  is  nothing  to  be  seen 
at  Florence — or  nothing  that  one  ought  to  wish 
to  see — till  the  destroyers  of  the  town  have  been 
hung  in  their  own  new  Piazza!" 

"  Oh  yes ! — that  is  a  real  disfigurement !"  said 
the  girl  eagerly.  "And  yet— can't  one  under- 
stand?—  they  must  use  their  towns  for  them- 
selves. They  can't  always  be  thinking  of  them 
as  museums — as  we  do." 

"The  argument  would  be  good  if  the  towns 
were  theirs,"  he  said,  flashing  round  upon  her. 
"  One  can  stand  a  great  deal  from  lawful  own- 
ers." 

Miss  Foster  looked  in  bewilderment  at  Mrs. 
Burgoyne.  That  lady  laughed  and  bent  across 
the  table. 

"  Let  me  warn  you,  Miss  Foster,  this  gentleman 

25 


here  must  be  taken  with  a  grain  of  salt  when  he 
talks  about  poor  Italy — and  the  Italians." 

"But  I  thought" — said  Lucy  Foster,  staring 
at  her  host — 

"You  thought  he  was  writing  a  book  on  Italy? 
That  doesn't  matter.  It's  the  new  Italy  of  course 
that  he  hates — the  poor  King  and  Queen — the 
government  and  the  officials." 

"He  wants  the  old  times  back?" — said  Miss 
Foster,  wondering — "when  the  priests  tyrannized 
over  everybody?  when  the  Italians  had  no  country 
— and  no  unity?" 

She  spoke  slowly,  at  last  looking  her  host  in 
the  face.  Her  frown  of  nervousness  had  disap- 
peared.    Manisty  laughed. 

"  Pio  Nono  pulled  down  nothing — not  a  brick — 
or  scarcely.  And  it  is  a  most  excellent  thing, 
Miss  Foster,  to  be  tyrannized  over  by  priests." 

His  great  eyes  shone — one  might  even  say, 
glared  upon  her.  His  manner  was  not  agree- 
able ;  and  Miss  Foster  colored. 

"  I  don't  think  so  " — she  said,  and  then  was  too 
shy  to  say  any  more. 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  think  so," — he  said,  obstinate- 
ly—  "only  you  must  stay  long  enough  in  the 
country.  What  people  are  pleased  to  call  Papal 
tyranny  puts  a  few  people  in  prison — and  tells 
them  what  books  to  read.  Well ! — what  matter? 
Who  knows  what  books  they  ought  to  read?" 

"  But  all  their  long  struggle! — and  their  heroes! 
They  had  to  make  themselves  a  nation — " 

The  words  stumbled  on  the  girl's  tongue,  but 
26 


her  efl^ort,  the  hot  feeling  in  her  young  face  be- 
came her. — Miss  Manisty  thought  to  herself,  "Oh, 
we  shall  dress,  and  improve  her — We  shall  see!" — 

"  One  has  first  to  settle  whether  it  was  worth 
while.  What  does  a  new  nation  matter?  Theirs, 
anyway,  was  made  too  quick,"  said  Manisty,  ris- 
ing in  answer  to  his  aunt's  signal. 

"  But  liberty  matters  !"  said  the  girl.  She  stood 
an  instant  with  her  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair, 
unconsciously  defiant. 

"  Ah  !  Liberty  !"  said  Manisty  —  "  Liberty  !" 
He  lifted  his  shoulders  contemptuously. 

Then  backing  to  the  wall,  he  made  room  for 
her  to  pass.  The  girl  felt  almost  as  though  she 
had  been  struck.  She  moved  hurriedly,  appeal- 
ingly  towards  Miss  Manisty,  who  took  her  arm 
kindly  as  they  left  the  room. 

"  Don't  let  my  nephew  frighten  you,  my  dear  " 
— she  said — "  He  never  thinks  like  anybody  else." 

"  I  read  so  much  at  Florence — and  on  the  jour- 
ney " — said  Lucy,  while  her  hand  trembled  in  Miss 
Manisty 's — "  Mrs.  Browning  —  Mazzini  —  many 
things.  I  could  not  put  that  time  out  of  my 
head !" 


CHAPTER     II 

ON  the  way  back  to  the  salon  the  ladies 
passed  once  more  through  the  large 
book-room  or  library  which  lay  between 
it  and  the  dining-room.  Lucy  Foster  looked 
round  it,  a  little  piteously,  as  though  she  were 
seeking  for  something  to  undo  the  impression — 
the  disappointment — she  had  just  received. 

"  Oh !  my  dear,  you  never  saw  such  a  place  as 
it  was  when  we  arrived  in  March" — said  Miss 
Manisty.  "  It  was  the  biUiard-room— a  ridiculous 
table — and  ridiculous  balls — and  a  tiled  floor 
without  a  scrap  of  carpet — and  the  cold!  In  the 
whole  apartment  there  were  just  two  bed-rooms 
with  fireplaces.  Eleanor  went  to  bed  in  one,  I 
went  to  bed  in  the  other.  No  carpets — no  stoves — 
no  proper  beds  even.  Edward  of  course  said  it 
was  all  charming,  and  the  climate  balmy.  Ah, 
well! — now  we  are  really  quite  comfortable — ex- 
cept in  that  odious  dining-room,  which  Edward 
will  have  left  in  its  sins." 

Miss  Manisty  surveyed  her  work  with  a  mild 
satisfaction.  The  table  indeed  had  been  carried 
away.  The  floor  was  covered  with  soft  carpets. 
28 


The  rough  uneven  walls  painted  everywhere 
with  the  interlaced  M's  of  the  Malestrini  were 
almost  hidden  by  well-filled  bookcases;  and,  in 
addition,  a  profusion  of  new  books,  mostly  French 
and  Italian,  was  heaped  on  all  the  tables.  On 
the  mantel-piece  a  large  recent  photograph  stood 
propped  against  a  marble  head.  It  represented 
a  soldier  in  a  striking  dress  ;  and  Lucy  stopped 
to  look  at  it. 

"  One  of  the  Swiss  Guards — at  the  Vatican  " — 
said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  kindly.  *'You  know  the 
famous  uniform — it  was  designed  by  Michael 
Angelo." 

"  No — I  didn't  know  " — said  the  girl,  flushing 
again. — "And  this  head?" 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  treasure  !  Mr.  Manisty  bought 
it  a  few  months  ago  from  a  Roman  noble  who 
has  come  to  grief.  He  sold  this  and  a  few  bits 
of  furniture  first  of  all.  Then  he  tried  to  sell 
his  pictures.  But  the  government  came  down 
upon  him — you  know  your  pictures  are  not  your 
own  in  Italy.  So  the  poor  man  must  keep  his 
pictures  and  go  bankrupt.  But  isn't  she  beau- 
tiful? She  is  far  finer  than  most  of  the  things 
in  the  Vatican — real  primitive  Greek — not  a  copy. 
Do  you  know" — Mrs.  Burgoyne  stepped  back, 
looked  first  at  the  bust,  then  at  Miss  Foster—"  do 
you  know  you  are  really  very  like  her — curiously 
like  her !" 

"  Oh  !" — cried  Miss  Foster  in  confusion — "  I 
wish—" 

"But   it  is  quite  true.     Except  for  the  hair 
29 


And  that's  only  arrangement.  Do  you  think— 
would  you  let  me  ? — would  you  forgive  me  ? — It's 
just  this  band  of  hair  here,  yours  waves  pre- 
cisely in  the  same  way.  Would  you  really  allow 
me — I  won't  make  you  untidy  ?" 

And  before  Miss  Foster  could  resist,  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  had  put  up  her  deft  hands,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment, with  a  pull  here,  and  the  alteration  of  a 
hair-pin  there,  she  had  loosened  the  girl's  black 
and  silky  hair,  till  it  showed  the  beautiful  waves 
above  the  ear  in  which  it  did  indeed  resemble 
the  marble  head  with  a  curious  closeness. 

"  I  can  put  it  back  in  a  moment.  But  oh — that 
is  so  charming  !     Aunt  Pattie !" 

Miss  Manisty  looked  up  from  a  newspaper 
which  had  just  arrived. 

"  My  dear  ! — that  was  bold  of  you  !  But  indeed 
it  is  charming !  I  think  I  would  forgive  you  if  I 
were  Miss  Foster." 

The  girl  felt  herself  gently  turned  towards  the 
mirror  that  rose  behind  the  Greek  head.  With 
pink  cheeks  she  too  looked  at  herself  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  in  a  shyness  beyond  speech,  she 
lifted  her  hands. 

"  Must  you  " — said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  appealingly. 
"  I  know  one  doesn't  like  to  be  untidy.  But  it 
isn't  really  the  least  untidy — It  is  only  delightful 
— perfectly  delightful !" 

Her  voice,  her  manner  charmed  the  girl's  an- 
noyance. 

"  If  you  like  it " — she  said,  hesitating — "  But  it 
will  come  down !" 

30 


"Hike  it  terribly  —  and  it  will  not  think  ot 
coming  down  !  Let  me  show  you  Mr.  Manisty's 
latest  purchase." 

And,  slipping  her  arm  inside  Miss  Foster's,  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  dexterously  turned  her  away  from  the 
glass,  and  brought  her  to  the  large  central  table, 
where  a  vivid  charcoal  sketch,  supported  on  a 
small  easel,  rose  among  the  litter  of  books. 

It  represented  an  old  old  man  carried  in  a 
chair  on  the  shoulders  of  a  crowd  of  attendants 
and  guards.  Soldiers  in  curved  helmets,  cour- 
tiers in  short  velvet  cloaks  and  ruffs,  priests  in 
floating  vestments  pressed  about  him — a  dim  vast 
multitude  stretched  into  the  distance.  The  old 
man  wore  a  high  cap  with  three  lines  about  it; 
his  thin  and  shrunken  form  was  enveloped  in  a 
gorgeous  robe.  The  face,  infinitely  old,  was  con- 
centrated in  the  sharply  smiling  eyes,  the  long, 
straight,  secret  mouth.  His  arm,  supporting 
with  difficulty  the  weight  of  the  robe,  was  raised, 
— the  hand  blessed.  On  either  side  of  him  rose 
great  fans  of  white  ostrich  feathers,  and  the  old 
man  among  them  was  whiter  than  they,  spec- 
trally white  from  head  to  foot,  save  for  the  triple 
cap,  and  the  devices  on  his  robe.  But  into  his 
emaciation,  his  weakness,  the  artist  had  thrown 
a  triumph,  a  force  that  thrilled  the  spectator. 
The  small  figure,  hovering  above  the  crowd, 
seemed  in  truth  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
to  be  alone  with  the  huge  spaces — arch  on  arch — 
dome  on  dome — of  the  vast  church  through  which 
it  was  being  borne. — 

31 


"  Do  you  know  who  it  is  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  smiling. 

"The— the  Pope?"  said  Miss  Foster,  wondering. 

"Isn't  it  clever?  It  is  by  one  of  your  compa- 
triots, an  American  artist  in  Rome.  Isn't  it  won- 
derful too,  the  way  in  which  it  shows  you  not 
the  Pope — but  the  Papacy — not  the  man  but  the 
Church?" 

Miss  Foster  said  nothing.  Her  puzzled  eyes 
travelled  from  the  drawing  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
face.  Then  she  caught  sight  of  another  photo- 
graph on  the  table. 

"  And  that  also  ?" — she  said — For  again  it  was 
the  face  of  Leo  XIII. — feminine,  priestly,  indom- 
itable—that looked  out  upon  her  from  among  the 
books. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  come  away,"  said  Miss  Manisty 
impatiently.  "  In  my  days  the  Scarlet  Lady  was 
the  Scarlet  Lady,  and  we  didn't  flirt  with  her  as 
all  the  world  does  now.  Shrewd  old  gentleman  ! 
I  should  have  thought  one  picture  of  him  was 
enough." 

As  they  entered  the  old  painted  salon,  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  went  to  one  of  the  tall  windows  open- 
ing to  the  floor  and  set  it  wide.  Instantly  the 
Campagna  was  in  the  room — the  great  moonlit 
plain,  a  thousand  feet  below,  with  the  sea  at  its 
farther  edge,  and  the  boundless  sweep  of  starry 
sky  above  it.  From  the  little  balcony  one  might, 
it  seemed,  have  walked  straight  into  Orion.  The 
note  of  a  nightingale  bubbled  up  from  the  olives; 
32 


and  the  scent  of  a  bean-field  in  flower  flooded  the 
salon. 

Miss  Foster  sprang  to  her  feet  and  followed 
Mrs.  Burgoyne.  She  hung  over  the  balcony 
while  her  companion  pointed  here  and  there,  to 
the  line  of  the  Appian  Way, — to  those  faint  streaks 
in  the  darkness  that  marked  the  distant  city — to 
the  dim  blue  of  the  Etrurian  mountains. — 

Presently  however  she  drew  herself  erect,  and 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  fancied  that  she  shivered. 

"Ah!  this  is  a  hill  air,"  she  said,  and  she  took 
from  her  arm  a  light  evening  cloak,  and  threw  it 
round  Miss  Foster. 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  cold !— It  wasn't  that !" 

"What  was  it?"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  pleasantly. 
"  That  you  feel  Italy  too  much  for  you  ?  Ah  !  you 
must  get  used  to  that." 

Lucy  Foster  drew  a  long  breath — a  breath  of 
emotion.  She  was  grateful  for  being  understood. 
But  she  could  not  express  herself. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  Did  you  read  a  good  deal  about  it  before  you 
came?" 

"  Well,  I  read  some — we  have  a  good  town- 
library — and  Uncle  Ben  gave  me  two  or  three 
books — but  of  course  it  wasn't  like  Boston.  Ours 
is  a  little  place." 

"And  you  were  pleased  to  come?" 

The  girl  hesitated. 

"  Yes  " — she  said  simply.    "  I  wanted  to  come. — 
But  I  didn't  want  to  leave  my  uncle.     He  is  get- 
ting quite  an  old  man." 
33 


"  And  you  have  lived  with  him  a  long  time  ?" 

"  Since  I  was  a  little  thing.  Mother  and  I  came 
to  live  with  him  after  father  died.  Then  mother 
died,  five  years  ago." 

"And  you  have  been  alone — and  very  good 
friends?" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  smiled  kindly.  She  had  a  man- 
ner of  questioning  that  seemed  to  Miss  Foster 
the  height  of  courtesy.  But  the  girl  did  not  find 
it  easy  to  answer. 

"  I  have  no  one  else — "  she  said  at  last,  and 
then  stopped  abruptly. 

"  She  is  homesick  " — said  Mrs,  Burgoyne  inward- 
ly— "I  wonder  whether  the  Lewinsons  treated 
her  nicely  at  Florence  ?" 

Indeed  as  Lucy  Foster  leaned  over  the  balcony, 
the  olive-gardens  and  vineyards  faded  before  her. 
She  saw  in  their  stead,  the  snow-covered  farms 
and  fields  of  a  New  England  valley — the  elms  in 
a  long  village  street,  bare  and  wintry — a  rambling 
wooden  house — a  glowing  fire,  in  a  simple  parlor — 
an  old  man  sitting  beside  it. — 

"It  is  chilly" — said  Mrs.  Burgoyne — "Let  us 
go  in.  But  we  will  keep  the  window  open.  Don't 
take  that  off." 

She  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 
Miss  Foster  sat  down  absently  not  far  from  the 
window.  The  mingled  lights  of  lamp  and  moon 
fell  upon  her,  upon  the  noble  rounding  of  the 
face,  which  was  grave,  a  little  austere  even,  but 
still  sensitive  and  delicate.  Her  black  hair, 
thanks  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  devices,  rippled  against 
34 


the  brow  and  cheek,  almost  hiding  the  small  ear. 
The  graceful  cloak,  with  its  touches  of  sable  on 
a  main  fabric  of  soft  white,  hid  the  ugly  dress ; 
its  ample  folds  heightened  the  natural  dignity 
of  the  young  form  and  long  limbs,  lent  them  a 
stately  and  muse-like  charm.  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
and  Miss  Manisty  looked  at  each  other  then  at 
Miss  Foster.  Both  of  them  had  the  same  curious 
feeling,  as  though  a  veil  were  being  drawn  away 
from  something  they  were  just  beginning  to  see. 

"  You  must  be  very  tired,  my  dear  " — said  Miss 
Manisty  at  last,  when  she  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  had 
chatted  a  good  deal,  and  the  new-comer  still  sat 
silent — "  I  wonder  what  you  are  thinking  about 
so  intently?" 

Miss  Foster  woke  up  at  once. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  bit  tired  —  not  a  bit!  I  was 
thinking — I  was  thinking  of  that  photograph  in 
the  next  room — and  a  line  of  poetry." 

She  spoke  with  the  naivete  of  one  who  had  not 
known  how  to  avoid  the  confession. 

"What  line?"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"  It's  Milton.  I  learned  it  at  school.  You  will 
know  it,  of  course,"  she  said  timidly.  "  It's  the 
line  about  *  the  triple  tyrant '  and  '  the  Babylo- 
nian woe ' " — 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  laughed. 

"Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant — 

Was  that  what  you  were  thinking  of?" 
35 


Miss  Foster  had  colored  deeply. 

"  It  was  the  cap — the  tiara,  isn't  it  ? — that  re. 
minded  me,"  she  said  faintly ;  and  then  she  look- 
ed away,  as  though  not  wishing  to  continue  the 
subject. 

"  She  wonders  whether  I  am  a  Catholic," 
thought  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  amused,  "and  whether 
she  has  hurt  my  feelings." — Aloud,  she  said — 
"Are  you  very,  very  Puritan  still  in  your  part  of 
America?  Excuse  me,  but  I  am  dreadfully  igno- 
rant about  America." 

"We  are  Methodists  in  our  little  town  most- 
ly " — said  Miss  Foster.  "  There  is  a  Presbyterian 
church — and  the  best  families  go  there.  But  my 
father's  people  were  always  Methodists.  My 
mother  was  a  Universalist." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  frowned  with  perplexity.  "  I'm 
afraid  I  don't  know  what  that  is  ?"  she  said. 

"They  think  everybody  will  be  saved,"  said 
Miss  Foster  in  her  shy  deep  voice.  "  They  don't 
despair  of  anybody." 

And  suddenly  Mrs.  Burgoyne  saw  a  very  soft 
and  tender  expression  pass  across  the  girl's 
grave  features,  like  the  rising  of  an  inward 
light. 

"  A  mystic — and  a  beauty  both  ?"  she  thought 
to  herself,  a  little  scornfully  this  time.  In  all  her 
politeness  to  the  new-comer  so  far,  she  had  been 
like  a  person  stealthily  searching  for  something 
foreseen  and  desired.  If  she  had  found  it,  it 
would  have  been  quite  easy  to  go  on  being  kind 
to  Miss  Foster.  But  she  had  not  found  it. 
3^ 


At  that  moment  the  door  between  the  library 
and  the  salon  was  thrown  open,  and  Manisty  ap- 
peared, cigarette  in  hand. 

"  Aunt  Pattie — Eleanor — how  many  tickets  do 
you  want  for  this  function  next  Sunday?" 

"  Four  tribune  tickets — we  three  " — Miss  Man- 
isty pointed  to  the  other  two  ladies — "  and  your- 
self.   If  we  can't  get  so  many,  leave  me  at  home." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  have  tribune  tickets — as 
many  as  we  want,"  said  Manisty  a  little  impa- 
tiently.— "Have  you  explained  to  Miss  Foster?" 

"  No,  but  I  will.  Miss  Foster,  next  Sunday  fort- 
night the  Pope  celebrates  his  '  Capella  Papale ' — 
the  eighteenth  anniversary  of  his  coronation — 
in  St.  Peter's.  Rome  is  very  full,  and  there  wilV 
be  a  great  demonstration — fifty  thousand  people 
or  more.    Would  you  like  to  come?" 

Miss  Foster  looked  up,  hesitating.  Manisty, 
who  had  turned  to  go  back  to  his  room,  paused, 
struck  by  the  momentary  silence.  He  listened 
with  curiosity  for  the  girl's  reply. 

"One  just  goes  to  see  it  like  a  spectacle?"  she 
said  at  last,  slowly.  "One  needn't  do  anything 
one's  self?" 

Miss  Manisty  stared — and  then  laughed.  "  No- 
body will  see  what  you  do  in  such  a  crowd — I 
should  think,"  she  said.  "  But  you  know  one 
can't  be  rude — to  an  old  old  man.  If  others  kneel, 
I  suppose  we  must  kneel.  Does  it  do  any  one 
harm  to  be  blessed  by  an  old  man  ?" 

"Oh  no! — no!"  cried  Miss  Foster,  flushing 
deeply.  Then,  after  a  moment,  she  added  da- 
37 


cidedly  —  "Please  —  I   should   like  to   go   very 
much," 

Manisty  grinned  unseen,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

Then  Miss  Foster,  after  an  instant's  restless- 
ness, moved  nearer  to  her  hostess. 

"  I  am  afraid — you  thought  I  was  rude  just 
now  ?  It's  so  lovely  of  you  to  plan  things  for  me. 
But — I  can't  ever  be  sure  whether  it's  right  to 
go  into  other  people's  churches  and  look  at  their 
services — like  a  show.  I  should  just  hate  it  my- 
self— and  I  felt  it  once  or  twice  at  Florence.  And 
so — you  understand — don't  you?" — she  said  im- 
ploringly. 

Miss  Manisty's  small  eyes  examined  her  with 
anxiety.  "  What  an  extraordinary  girl !"  she 
thought.     "  Is  she  going  to  be  a  great  bore?" 

At  the  same  time  the  girl's  look — so  open,  sweet 
and  modest — disarmed  and  attracted  her.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  smile. 

**  Well,  my  dear — I  don't  know.  All  I  can  say 
is,  the  Catholics  don't  mind !  They  walk  in  and 
out  of  their  own  churches  all  the  time  mass  is 
going  on — the  children  run  about — the  sacristans 
take  you  round.  You  certainly  needn't  feel  it  on 
their  account." 

"  But  then,  too,  if  I  am  not  a  Catholic — how  far 
ought  one  to  be  taking  part — in — in  what — " 

"In  what   one  disapproves?"   said    Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  smiling,     "  You  would  make  the  world  a 
little  difficult,  wouldn't  you,  if  you  were  to  ar- 
range it  on  that  principle?" 
38 


She  spoke  in  a  dry,  rather  sharp  voice,  unlike 
that  in  which  she  had  hitherto  addressed  the 
new-comer.  Lucy  Foster  looked  at  her  with  a 
shrinking  perplexity. 

"  It's  best  if  we're  all  straightforward,  isn't 
it?" — she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  then,  drawing 
towards  her  an  illustrated  magazine  that  lay  on 
the  table  near  her  she  hurriedly  buried  herself  in 
its  pages. 

Silence  had  fallen  on  the  three  ladies.  Eleanor 
Burgoyne  sat  lost  in  reverie,  her  fair  head  thrown 
back  against  her  low  chair. 

She  was  thinking  of  her  conversation  with  Ed- 
ward Manisty  on  the  balcony — and  of  his  book. 
That  book  indeed  had  for  her  a  deep  personal 
significance.  To  think  of  it  at  all,  was  to  be  car- 
ried to  the  past,  to  feel  for  the  hundredth  time 
the  thrill  of  change  and  new  birth. 

When  she  joined  them  in  Rome,  in  midwinter, 
she  had  found  Manisty  struggling  with  the  first 
drafts  of  it,  —  full  of  yeasty  ideas,  full  also  of 
doubts,  confusions  and  discouragements.  He 
had  not  been  at  all  glad  to  see  his  half-forgotten 
cousin — quite  the  contrary.  As  she  had  reminded 
him,  she  had  suffered  much  the  same  things  at 
his  hands  that  Miss  Foster  was  likely  to  suffer 
now.  It  made  her  laugh  to  think  of  his  languid 
reception  of  her,  the  moods,  the  silences,  the 
weeks  of  just  civil  acquaintanceship ;  and  then 
gradually,  the  snatches  of  talk — and  those  great 
black  brows  of  his  lifted  in  a  surprise  which  a 
39 


tardy  politeness  would  try  to  mask  : — and  at  last, 
the  good,  long,  brain-filling,  heart-filling  talks, 
the  break -down  of  reserves  —  the  man's  whole 
mind,  its  remorses,  ambitions,  misgivings,  poured 
at  her  feet — ending  in  the  growth  of  that  sweet 
daily  habit  of  common  work — side  by  side,  l^ad 
close  to  head — hand  close  to  hand. — 

Eleanor  Burgoyne  lay  still  and  motionless  in 
the  soft  dusk  of  the  old  room,  her  white  lids  shut 
^-Lucy  Foster  thought  her  asleep. — 

He  had  said  to  her  once,  quoting  some  French- 
man, that  she  was  "  good  to  consult  about  ideas.'* 
Ah  well ! — at  a  great  price  had  she  won  that  praise. 
And  with  an  unconscious  stiffening  of  the  frail 
hands  lying  on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  she  thought 
of  those  bygone  hours  in  which  she  had  asked 
herself — "  what  remains  ?"  Religious  faith  ? — No ! 
— Life  was  too  horrible !  Could  such  things  have 
happened  to  her  in  a  world  ruled  by  a  God? — ■ 
that  was  her  question,  day  and  night  for  years. 
But  books,  facts,  ideas — all  the  riddle  of  this  vari- 
ous nature — that  one  might  still  amuse  one's  self 
with  a  little,  till  one's  own  light  went  out  in  the 
same  darkness  that  had  already  engulfed  mother 
— husband — child. 

So  that  "  cleverness,"  of  which  father  and  hus- 
band had  taken  so  little  account,  which  had  been 
of  so  little  profit  to  her  so  far  in  her  course 
through  circumstance,  had  come  to  her  aid.  The 
names  and  lists  of  the  books  that  had  passed 
through  her  hands,  during  those  silent  years  of 
her  widowhood,  lived  beside  her  stern  old  fa- 
40 


ther,  would  astonish  even  Manisty  were  she  to  try 
and  give  some  account  of  them.  And  first  she  had 
read  merely  to  fill  the  hours,  to  dull  memory.  But 
gradually  there  had  sprung  up  in  her  that  inner 
sweetness,  that  gentle  restoring  flame  that  comes 
from  the  life  of  ideas,  the  life  of  knowledge,  even 
as  a  poor  untrained  woman  may  approach  it. 
She  had  shared  it  with  no  one,  revealed  it  to  no 
one.  Her  nature  dreaded  rebuffs;  and  her  father 
had  no  words  sharp  enough  for  any  feminine  am- 
bition beyond  the  household  and  the  nursery. 

So  she  had  kept  it  all  to  herself,  till  Miss  Man- 
isty, shocked  as  many  other  people  had  begun  to 
be  by  her  fragile  looks,  had  bearded  the  General, 
and  carried  her  off  to  Rome  for  the  winter.  And 
there  she  had  been  forced,  as  it  were,  into  this 
daily  contact  with  Edward  Manisty,  at  what 
might  well  turn  out  to  be  the  most  critical  mo- 
ment of  his  life  ;  when  he  was  divided  between 
fierce  regrets  for  the  immediate  past,  and  fierce 
resolves  to  recover  and  assert  himself  in  other 
ways;  when  he  was  taking  up  again  his  earlier 
function  of  man  of  letters  in  order  to  vindicate 
himself  as  a  politician  and  a  man  of  action. 
Strange  and  challenging  personality ! — did  she 
yet  know  it  fully? 

Ah !  that  winter — what  a  healing  in  it  all  !— 
what  a  great  human  experience !  Yet  now,  as 
always,  when  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  past, 
she  did  not  allow  them  to  dwell  upon  it  long. 
That  past  lay  for  her  in  a  golden  haze.  To  ex- 
plore it  too  deeply,  or  too  long — that  she  shrank 
c  41 


from.  All  that  she  prayed  was  to  press  no  ques- 
tions, force  no  issues.  But  at  least  she  had  found 
in  it  a  new  reason  for  living  ;  she  meant  to  live ; 
whereas  last  year  she  had  wished  to  die,  and  all 
the  world — dear,  kind  Aunt  Pattie  first  and  fore- 
most— had  thought  her  on  the  road  for  death. 

But  the  book? — she  bent  her  brows  over  it, 
wrestling  with  various  doubts  and  difficulties. 
Though  it  was  supposed  to  represent  the  thoughts 
and  fancies  of  an  Englishman  wandering  through 
modern  Italy,  it  was  really  Manisty's  Apologia — 
Manisty's  defence  of  certain  acts  which  had  made 
him  for  a  time  the  scandal  and  offence  of  the 
English  political  party  to  which  ancestrally  he 
belonged,  in  whose  interests  he  had  entered  Par- 
liament and  taken  office.  He  had  broken  with 
his  party  on  the  ground  that  it  had  becom'e  a 
party  of  revolution,  especially  in  matters  con- 
nected with  Religion  and  Education;  and  hav- 
ing come  abroad  to  escape  for  a  time  from  the 
personal  frictions  and  agitations  which  his  con- 
duct had  brought  upon  him,  he  had  thrown  him- 
self into  a  passionate  and  most  hostile  study  of 
Italy — Italy,  the  new  country,  made  by  revolu- 
tion, fashioned,  so  far  as  laws  and  government 
can  do  it,  by  the  lay  modern  spirit, — as  an  object- 
lesson  to  England  and  the  world.  The  book  was 
in  reality  a  party  pamphlet,  written  by  a  man 
whose  history  and  antecedents,  independently  of 
his  literary  ability,  made  his  work  certain  of  read- 
ers and  of  vogue. 

That,  however,  was  not  what  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
42 


was  thinking  of.  —  She  was  anxiously  debating 
with  herself  certain  points  of  detail,  points  of 
form. 

These  fragments  of  poetical  prose  which  Man- 
isty  had  interspersed  amid  a  serious  political 
argument — were  they  really  an  adornment  of  the 
book,  or  a  blur  upon  it  ?  He  had  a  natural  ten- 
dency towards  color  and  exuberance  in  writing ; 
he  loved  to  be  leisurely,  and  a  little  sonorous; 
there  was  something  old-fashioned  and  Byronic 
in  his  style  and  taste.  His  sentences,  perhaps, 
were  short ;  but  his  manner  was  not  brief.  The 
elliptical  fashion  of  the  day  was  not  his.  He 
liked  to  wander  through  his  subject,  dreaming, 
poetizing,  discussing  at  his  will.  It  was  like  a  re- 
turn to  vetturino  after  the  summary  haste  of  the 
railway.  And  so  far  the  public  had  welcomed 
this  manner  of  his.  His  earlier  book  (the  "  Let- 
ters From  Palestine"),  with  its  warm,  overladen 
pages,  had  found  many  readers  and  much  fame. 

But  here — in  a  strenuous  political  study,  fur- 
nished with  all  the  facts  and  figures  that  the  stu- 
dent and  the  debater  require— representing,  too, 
another  side  of  the  man,  just  as  vigorous  and  as 
real,  were  these  intrusions  of  poetry  wise  or  de- 
sirable ?  Were  they  in  place?  Was  the  note  of 
them  quite  right?  Was  it  not  a  little  turbid — 
uncertain? 

That  prose  poem  of  "The  Priest  of  Nemi,"  for 
example? 

Ah  !  Nemi ! — the  mere  thought  of  it  sent  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  through  her.  That  blue  lake 
43 


in  its  green  cup  on  the  edge  of  the  Campagna, 
with  its  ruins  and  its  legends — what  golden  hours 
had  she  and  Manisty  spent  there  !  It  had  caught 
their  fancy  from  the  beginning — the  site  of  the 
great  temple,  the  wild  strawberry  fields,  the  great 
cliffs  of  Nemi  and  Genzano,  the  bright -faced 
dark-eyed  peasants  with  their  classical  names — 
Aristodemo,  Oreste,  Evandro. 

And  that  strange  legend  of  the  murdered 
priest — 

*'The  priest  who  slew  the  slayer, 
And  shall  himself  be  slain" — 

—what  modern  could  not  find  something  in  that — 
some  stimulus  to  fancy — some  hint  for  dreaming? 

Yes — it  had  been  very  natural — very  tempting. 
But!— 

...  So  she  pondered, — a  number  of  acute,  critical 
instincts  coming  into  play.  And  presently  her 
thoughts  spread  and  became  a  vague  reverie, 
covering  a  multitude  of  ideas  and  images  that  she 
and  Manisty  now  had  in  common.  How  strange 
that  she  and  he  should  be  engaged  in  this  work 
together  ! — this  impassioned  defence  of  tradition, 
of  Catholicism  and  the  Papacy,  as  the  imperish- 
able, indestructible  things — "chastened  and  not 
killed — dying, and  behold  they  live" — let  the  puny 
sons  of  modern  Italy  rage  and  struggle  as  they 
may.  He — one  of  the  most  thorough  skeptics  of 
his  day,  as  she  had  good  reason  to  know — she,  a 
woman  who  had  at  one  time  ceased  to  believe 
because  of  an  intolerable  anguish,  and  was  now 


only  creeping  sloivly  back  to  faith,  to  hope,  be- 
cause — because — 

Ah ! — with  a  little  shiver,  she  recalled  her 
thought,  as  a  falconer  might  his  bird,  before  it 
struck.  Oh  !  this  old,  old  Europe,  with  its  com- 
plexities, its  manifold  currents  and  impulses,  ev- 
ery human  being  an  embodied  contradiction — no 
simplicity,  no  wholeness  anywhere  —  none  pos- 
sible ! 

She  opened  her  eyes  languidly,  and  they  rested 
on  Lucy  Foster's  head  and  profile  bent  over  her 
book.  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  mind  filled  with  a  sudden 
amused  pity  for  the  girl's  rawness  and  ignorance. 
She  seemed  the  fitting  type  of  a  young  crude 
race  with  all  its  lessons  to  learn  ;  that  saw  nothing 
absurd  in  its  Methodists  and  Universalists  and 
the  rest — confident,  as  a  child  is,  in  its  cries  and 
whims  and  prejudices.  The  American  girl,  fresh 
from  her  wilds,  and  doubtful  whether  she  would 
go  to  see  the  Pope  in  St.  Peter's,  lest  she  should 
have  to  bow  the  knee  to  Antichrist — the  image 
delighted  the  mind  of  the  elder  woman.  She  play- 
ed with  it,  finding  fresh  mock  at  every  turn. 

"  Eleanor ! — now  I  have  rewritten  it.  Tell  me 
how  it  runs." 

Lucy  Foster  looked  up.  She  saw  that  Mr.  Man- 
isty,  carrying  a  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand,  had 
thrown  himself  into  a  chair  behind  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne.  His  look  was  strenuous  and  absorbed, 
his  tumbling  black  hair  had  fallen  forward  as 
though  in  a  stress  of  composition  ;  he  spoke  in  a 
45 


low,  imperative  voice,  like  one  accustomed  to 
command  the  time  and  the  attention  of  those 
about  him. 

"  Read!"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  turning  her  slen- 
der neck  that  she  might  look  at  him  and  hear. 
He  began  to  read  at  once  in  a  deep,  tremulous 
voice,  and  as  though  he  were  quite  unconscious 
of  any  other  presence  in  the  room  than  hers. 
Miss  Foster,  who  was  sitting  at  a  little  distance, 
supposed  she  ought  not  to  listen.  She  was  about 
to  close  her  book  and  rise,  when  Miss  Manisty 
touched  her  on  the  arm. 

*'  It  disturbs  him  if  we  move  about !"  said  the 
little  spinster  in  a  smiling  whisper,  her  finger  on 
her  lip. 

And  suddenly  the  girl  was  conscious  of  a  light- 
ning flash  from  lifted  eyes — a  look  threatening 
and  peremptory.  She  settled  herself  into  her 
chair  again  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  sat  with 
head  bent,  a  smile  she  could  not  repress  playing 
round  her  lips.  It  was  all  she  could  do  indeed 
not  to  laugh,  so  startling  and  passionate  had  been 
the  monition  conveyed  in  Mr.  Manisty's  signal. 
That  the  great  man  should  take  little  notice  of 
his  aunt's  guest  was  natural  enough.  But  to  be 
frowned  upon  the  first  evening,  as  though  she 
were  a  troublesome  child ! — she  did  not  resent  it 
at  all,  but  it  tickled  her  sense  of  humor.  She 
thought  happily  of  her  next  letter  to  Uncle  Ben ; 
how  she  would  describe  these  rather  strange 
people. 

And  at  first  she  hardly  listened  to  what  was 
46 


being  read.  The  voice  displeased  her.  It  was 
too  emphatic — she  disliked  its  tremolo,  its  deep 
bass  vibrations.  Surely  one  should  read  more 
simply ! 

Then  the  first  impression  passed  away  alto- 
gether. She  looked  up — her  eyes  fastened  them- 
selves on  the  reader — her  lips  parted — the  smile 
changed. 

What  the  full  over  -  rich  voice  was  calling  up 
before  her  was  a  little  morning  scene,  as  Virgil 
might  have  described  it,  passing  in  the  hut  of  a 
Latian  peasant  farmer,  under  Tiberius. 

It  opened  with  the  waking  at  dawn  of  the 
herdsman  Caeculus  and  his  little  son,  in  their 
round  thatched  cottage  on  the  ridge  of  Aricia, 
beneath  the  Alban  Mount.  It  showed  the  coun- 
tryman stepping  out  of  his  bed  into  the  darkness, 
groping  for  the  embers  on  the  hearth,  relighting 
his  lamp,  and  calling  first  to  his  boy  asleep  on  his 
bed  of  leaves,  then  to  their  African  servant,  the 
negro  slave-girl  with  her  wide  mouth,  her  tight 
woolly  hair.  One  by  one  the  rustic  facts  emerged, 
so  old,  so  ever  new  : — Caeculus  grinding  his  corn, 
and  singing  at  his  work — the  baking  of  the  fiat 
wheaten  cakes  on  the  hot  embers — the  gathering 
of  herbs  from  the  garden  —  the  kneading  them 
with  a  little  cheese  and  oil  to  make  a  relish  for 
the  day — the  harnessing  of  the  white  steers  under 
the  thonged  yoke — the  man  going  forth  to  his 
ploughing,  under  the  mounting  dawn,  clad  in  his 
goat -skin  tunic  and  his  leathern  hat, — the  boy 
47 


loosening  the  goats  from  their  pen  beside  the 
hut,  and  sleepily  driving  them  past  the  furrows 
where  his  father  was  at  work,  to  the  misty  woods 
beyond. 

With  every  touch,  the  earlier  world  revived, 
grew  plainer  in  the  sun,  till  the  listener  found 
herself  walking  with  Manisty  through  paths  that 
cut  the  Alban  Hills  in  the  days  of  Rome's  first 
imperial  glory,  listening  to  his  tale  of  the  littde 
goatherd,  and  of  Nemi. 

"So  the  boy  —  Quintus  —  left  the  ploughed 
lands,  and  climbed  a  hill  above  the  sleeping  town. 
And  when  he  reached  the  summit,  he  paused  and 
turned  him  to  the  west. 

"  The  Latian  plain  spreads  beneath  him  in  the 
climbing  sun  ;  at  its  edge  is  the  sea  in  a  light  of 
pearl ;  the  white  fishing-boats  sparkle  along  the 
shore.  Close  at  his  feet  runs  a  straight  road  high 
upon  the  hill.  He  can  see  the  country  folk  on 
their  laden  mules  and  donkeys  journeying  along 
it,  journeying  northwards  to  the  city  in  the  plain 
that  the  spurs  of  the  mountain  hide  from  him. 
His  fancy  goes  with  them,  along  the  Appian  Way, 
trotting  with  the  mules.  When  will  his  father 
take  him  again  to  Rome  to  see  the  shops,  and  the 
Forum,  and  the  new  white  temples,  and  Caesar's 
great  palace  on  the  hill? 

"  Then  carelessly  his  eyes  pass  southward,  and 

there  beneath  him  in  its  hollow  is  the  lake — the 

round  blue  lake  that  Diana  loves,  where  are  her 

temple  and  her  shadowy  grove.     The  morning 

48 


mists  lie  wreathed  above  it ;  the  just-leafing  trees 
stand  close  \n  the  great  cup ;  only  a  few  patches 
of  roof  and  column  reveal  the  shrine. 

"  On  he  moves.  His  wheaten  cake  is  done.  He 
takes  his  pipe  from  his  girdle,  touches  it,  and 
sings. 

"  His  bare  feet  as  he  moves  tread  down  the 
wet  flowers.  Round  him  throng  the  goats  ;  sud- 
denly he  throws  down  his  pipe  ;  he  runs  to  a  goat 
heavy  with  milk ;  he  presses  the  teats  with  his 
quick  hands ;  the  milk  flows  foaming  into  the 
wooden  cup  he  has  placed  below ;  he  drinks,  his 
brown  curls  sweeping  the  cup ;  then  he  picks  up 
his  pipe  and  walks  on  proudly  before  his  goats, 
his  lithe  body  swaying  from  side  to  side  as  he 
moves,  dancing  to  the  music  that  he  makes.  The 
notes  float  up  into  the  morning  air;  the  echo  of 
them  runs  round  the  shadowy  hollow  of  the  lake. 

"  Down  trips  the  boy,  parting  the  dewy  branches 
with  his  brown  shoulders.  Around  him  the  moun- 
tain-side is  golden  with  the  broom  ;  at  his  feet 
the  white  cistus  covers  the  rock.  The  shrubs  of 
the  scattered  wood  send  out  their  scents  ;  and  the 
goats  browse  upon  their  shoots. 

"  But  the  path  sinks  gently  downward — winding 
along  the  basin  of  the  lake.  And  now  the  boy 
emerges  from  the  wood ;  he  stands  upon  a  knoll 
to  rest. 

"Ah  !  sudden  and  fierce  comes  the  sun  !— and 

there  below  him  in  the  rich  hollow  it  strikes  the 

temple  —  Diana's  temple  and   her   grove.     Out 

flame  the  white   columns,  the   bronze  roof,  the 

49 


white  enclosing  walls.  Piercingly  white  the  holy 
and  famous  place  shines  among  the  olives  and 
the  fallows ;  the  sun  burns  upon  the  marble ; 
Phoebus  salutes  his  great  sister.  And  in  the  wa- 
ters of  the  lake  reappear  the  white  columns ;  the 
blue  waves  dance  around  the  shimmering  lines; 
the  mists  part  above  them ;  they  rise  from  the 
lake,  lingering  awhile  upon  the  woods. 

"  The  boy  lays  his  hands  to  his  eyes  and  looks 
eagerly  towards  the  temple.  Nothing.  No  living 
creature  stirs. 

"Often  has  he  been  warned  by  his  father  not 
to  venture  alone  within  the  grove  of  the  goddess. 
Twice,  indeed,  on  the  great  June  festivals  has  he 
witnessed  the  solemn  sacrifices,  and  the  crowds 
of  worshippers,  and  the  torches  mirrored  in  the 
lake.  But  without  his  father,  fear  has  hitherto 
stayed  his  steps  far  from  the  temple. 

"  To-day,  however,  as  the  sun  mounts,  and  the 
fresh  breeze  breaks  from  the  sea,  his  youth  and 
the  wildness  of  it  dance  within  his  blood.  He 
and  his  goats  pass  into  an  olive-garden.  The 
red-brown  earth  has  been  freshly  turned  amid 
the  twisted  trunks ;  the  goats  scatter,  searching 
for  the  patches  of  daisied  grass  still  left  by  the 
plough.  Guiltily  the  boy  looks  round  him — peers 
through  the  olives  and  their  silvery  foam  of 
leaves,  as  they  fall  past  him  down  the  steep. 
Then  like  one  of  his  own  kids  he  lowers  his  head 
and  runs ;  he  leaves  his  flock  under  the  olives ; 
he  slips  into  a  dense  ilex-wood,  still  chill  with  the 
morning;  he  presses  towards  its  edge;  panting 
50 


he  climbs  a  huge  and  ancient  tree  that  flings  its 
boughs  forward  above  the  temple  wall ;  he  creeps 
along  a  branch  among  the  thick  small  leaves, — he 
lifts  his  head. 

"The  temple  is  before  him,  and  the  sacred 
grove.  He  sees  the  great  terrace,  stretching  to 
the  lake ;  he  hears  the  little  waves  plashing  on  its 
buttressed  wall. 

"  Close  beneath  him,  towards  the  rising  and  the 
mid-day  sun  there  stretches  a  great  niched  wall 
girdling  the  temple  on  two  sides,  each  niche  a 
shrine,  and  in  each  shrine  a  cold  white  form  that 
waits  the  sun — Apollo  the  Far-Darter,  and  the 
spear-bearing  Pallas,  and  among  them  that  golden 
Caesar,  of  whom  the  country  talks,  who  has  given 
great  gifts  to  the  temple — he  and  his  grandson, 
the  young  Gains. 

"  The  boy  strains  his  eye  to  see,  and  as  the 
light  strikes  into  the  niche,  flames  on  the  gleam- 
ing breastplate,  and  the  uplifted  hand,  he  trembles 
on  his  branch  for  fear.  Hurriedly  he  turns  his 
look  on  the  dwellings  of  the  priestesses,  where  all 
still  sleeps ;  on  the  rows  of  shining  pillars  that 
stand  round  about  the  temple;  on  the  close-set 
trees  of  the  grove  that  stands  between  it  and  the 
lake. 

"  Hark  ! — a  clanging  of  metal — of  great  doors 
upon  their  hinges.  From  the  inner  temple — from 
the  shrine  of  the  goddess,  there  comes  a  man. 
His  head  is  bound  with  the  priest's  fillet ;  sharply 
the  sun  touches  his  white  pointed  cap ;  in  his 
hand  he  carries  a  sword. 
SI 


"  Between  the  temple  and  the  grove  there  is  a 
space  of  dazzling  light.  The  man  passes  into  it, 
turns  himself  to  the  east^  and  raises  his  hand  to 
his  mouth  ;  drawing  his  robe  over  his  head,  he 
sinks  upon  the  ground,  and  prostrate  there,  adores 
the  coming  god. 

"His  prayer  lasts  but  an  instant.  Rising  in 
haste,  he  stands  looking  around  him,  his  sword 
gathered  in  his  hand.  He  is  a  man  still  young; 
his  stature  is  more  than  the  ordinary  height  of 
men ;  his  limbs  are  strong  and  supple.  His  rich 
dress,  moreover,  shows  him  to  be  both  priest  and 
king.  But  again  the  boy  among  his  leaves  draws 
his  trembling  body  close,  hiding,  like  a  lizard,  when 
some  passing  step  has  startled  it  from  the  sun. 
For  on  this  haggard  face  the  gods  have  written 
strange  and  terrible  things ;  the  priest's  eyes 
deep  sunk  under  his  shaggy  hair  dart  from  side 
to  side  in  a  horrible  unrest ;  he  seems  a  creature 
separate  from  his  kind — possessed  of  evil — dedi- 
cate to  fear. 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  temple  grove  stands  one 
vast  ilex,  —  the  tree  of  trees,  sacred  to  Trivia. 
The  other  trees  fall  back  from  it  in  homage  ;  and 
round  it  paces  the  priest,  alone  in  the  morning 
light. 

"  But  his  is  no  holy  meditation.  His  head  is 
thrown  back;  his  ear  listens  for  every  sound; 
the  bared  sword  glitters  as  he  moves.  .  .  . 

"There  is  a  rustle  among  the  farther  trees. 
Quickly  the  boy  stretches  his  brown  neck  ;  for 
at  the  sound  the  priest  crouches  on  himself ;  he 
52    . 


throws  the  robe  from  his  right  arm  ;  and  so  waits, 
ready  to  strike.  The  light  falls  on  his  pale  feat- 
ures, the  torment  of  his  brow,  the  anguish  of  his 
drawn  lips.  Beside  the  lapping  lake,  and  under 
the  golden  morning,  he  stands  as  Terror  in  the 
midst  of  Peace. 

"Silence  again: — only  the  questing  birds  call' 
from  the  olive-woods.     Panting,  the  priest  moves 
onward,  racked   with  sick   tremors,  prescient  of 
doom. 

"  But  hark!  a  cry! — and  yet  another  answering 
— a  dark  form  bursting  from  the  grove — a  fierce 
locked  struggle  under  the  sacred  tree.  The  boy 
crawls  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  branch,  his  eyes 
starting  from  his  head. 

"  From  the  temple  enclosure,  from  the  farther 
trees,  from  the  hill  around,  a  crowd  comes  run- 
ning; men  and  white-robed  priestesses,  women, 
children  even  —  gathering  in  haste.  But  they 
pause  afar  off.  Not  a  living  soul  approaches  the 
place  of  combat;  not  a  hand  gives  aid.  The  boy 
can  see  the  faces  of  the  virgins  who  serve  the 
temple.  They  are  pale,  but  very  still.  Not  a 
sound  of  pity  escapes  their  white  lips;  their  ambig- 
uous eyes  watch  calmly  for  the  issue  of  the  strife. 

"  And  on  the  farther  side,  at  the  edge  of  the 
grove  stand  country  folk,  men  in  goatskin  tunics 
and  leathern  hats  like  the  boy's  father.  And  the 
little  goatherd,  not  knowing  what  he  does,  calls 
to  them  for  help  in  his  shrill  voice.  But  no  one 
heeds;  and  the  priest  himself  calls  no  one,  en- 
treats no  one. 

53 


"Ah!  The  priest  wavers — he  falls — his  white 
robes  are  in  the  dust.  The  bright  steel  rises — 
descends: — the  last  groan  speeds  to  heaven. 

**  The  victor  raised  himself  from  the  dead,  all 
stained  with  the  blood  and  soil  of  the  battle. 
Menalcas  gazed  upon  him  astonished.  For  here 
was  no  rude  soldier,  nor  swollen  boxer,  but  a 
youth  merely  —  a  youth,  slender  and  beautiful, 
fair-haired,  and  of  a  fair  complexion.  His  loins 
were  girt  with  a  slave's  tunic.  Pallid  were  his 
young  features;  his  limbs  wasted  with  hunger 
and  toil ;  his  eyes  blood-streaked  as  those  of  the 
deer  when  the  dogs  close  upon  its  tender  life. 

"And  looking  down  upon  the  huddled  priest, 
fallen  in  his  blood  upon  the  dust,  he  peered  long 
into  the  dead  face,  as  though  he  beheld  it  for  the 
first  time.  Shudders  ran  through  him;  Quintus 
listened  to  hear  him  weep  or  moan.  But  at  the 
last,  he  lifted  his  head,  fiercely  straightening  his 
limbs  like  one  who  reminds  himself  of  black  fate, 
and  things  not  to  be  undone.  And  turning  to 
the  multitude,  he  made  a  sign.  With  shouting 
and  wild  cries  they  came  upon  him;  they  snatched 
the  purple-striped  robe  from  the  murdered  priest, 
and  with  it  they  clothed  his  murderer.  They 
put  on  him  the  priest's  fillet,  and  the  priest's  cap  ; 
they  hung  garlands  upon  his  neck;  and  with  re- 
joicing and  obeisance  they  led  him  to  the  sacred 
temple.  .  .  . 

"  And  for  many  hours  more  the  boy  remained 
hidden  in  the  tree,  held  there  by  the  spell  of  his 
54 


terror.  He  saw  the  temple  ministers  take  up  the 
body  of  the  dead,  and  carelessly  drag  it  from  the 
grove.  All  day  long  was  there  crowd  and  festi- 
val within  the  sacred  precinct.  But  when  the 
shadows  began  to  fall  from  the  ridge  of  Aricia 
across  the  lake;  when  the  new-made  priest  had 
offered  on  Trivia's  altar  a  white  steer,  nourished 
on  the  Alban  grass;  when  he  had  fed  the  fire  of 
Vesta;  and  poured  offerings  to  Virbius  the  im- 
mortal, whom  in  ancient  days  great  Diana  had 
snatched  from  the  gods'  wrath,  and  hidden  here, 
safe  within  the  Arician  wood, — when  these  were 
done,  the  crowd  departed  and  the  Grove -King 
came  forth  alone  from  the  temple. 

"The  boy  watched  what  he  would  do.  In  his 
hand  he  carried  the  sword,  which  at  the  sunrise 
he  had  taken  from  the  dead.  And  he  came  to 
the  sacred  tree  that  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
grove,  and  he  too  began  to  pace  about  it,  glan- 
cing from  side  to  side,  as  that  other  had  done  be- 
fore him.  And  once  when  he  was  near  the  place 
where  the  caked  blood  still  lay  upon  the  ground, 
the  sword  fell  clashing  from  his  hand,  and  he 
flung  his  two  arms  to  heaven  with  a  hoarse  and 
piercing  cry — the  cry  of  him  who  accuses  and  ar- 
raigns the  gods. 

"And  the  boy,  shivering,  slipped  from  the  tree, 
with  that  cry  in  his  ear,  and  hastily  sought  for  his 
goats.  And  when  he  had  found  them  he  drove  them 
home,  not  staying  even  to  quench  his  thirst  from 
their  swollen  udders.  And  in  the  shepherd's 
hut  he  found  his  father  Caeculus;  and  sinking 
55 


down  beside  him  with  tears  and  sobs  he  told  his 
tale. 

"And  Caeculus  pondered  long.  And  without 
chiding,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  boy's  head  and 
bade  him  be  comforted.  'For,'  said  he,  as  though 
he  spake  with  himself — 'such  is  the  will  of  the 
goddess.  And  from  the  furthest  times  it  has 
happened  thus,  before  the  Roman  fathers  jour- 
neyed from  the  Alban  Mount  and  made  them 
dwellings  on  the  seven  hills  —  before  Romulus 
gave  laws, — or  any  white-robed  priest  had  climbed 
the  Capitol.  From  blood  springs  up  the  sacred 
office;  and  to  blood  it  goes!  No  natural  death 
must  waste  the  priest  of  Trivia's  tree.  The  earth 
is  hungry  for  the  blood  in  its  strength — nor  shall 
it  be  withheld!  Thus  only  do  the  trees  bear,  and 
the  fields  bring  forth.' 

"  Astonished,  the  boy  looked  at  his  father,  and 
saw  upon  his  face,  as  he  turned  it  upon  the 
ploughed  lands  and  the  vineyards,  a  secret  and  a 
savage  joy.  And  the  little  goatherd's  mind  was 
filled  with  terror — nor  would  his  father  tell  him 
further  what  the  mystery  meant.  But  when  he 
went  to  his  bed  of  dried  leaves  at  night,  and  the 
moon  rose  upon  the  lake,  and  the  great  woods 
murmured  in  the  hollow  far  beneath  him,  he 
tossed  restlessly  from  side  to  side,  thinking  of 
the  new  priest  who  kept  watch  there  —  of  his 
young  limbs  and  miserable  eyes — of  that  voice 
which  he  had  flung  to  heaven.  And  the  child 
tried  to  believe  that  he  might  yet  escape. — But 
already  in  his  dreams  he  saw  the  grove  part  once 
56 


more  and  the  slayer  leap  forth.  He  saw  the 
watching  crowd  —  and  their  fierce,  steady  eyes, 
waiting  thirstily  for  the  spilt  blood.  And  it  was 
as  though  a  mighty  hand  crushed  the  boy's 
heart,  and  for  the  first  time  he  shrank  from  the 
gods,  and  from  his  father, — so  that  the  joy  of  his 
youth  was  darkened  within  him." 

As  he  read  the  last  word,  Manisty  flung  the 
sheets  down  upon  the  table  beside  him,  and  ris- 
ing, he  began  to  pace  the  room  with  his  hands 
upon  his  sides,  frowning  and  downcast.  When 
he  came  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  chair  he  paused  be- 
side her — 

"  I  don't  see  what  it  has  to  do  with  the  book. 
It  is  time  lost,"— he  said  to  her  abruptly,  almost 
angrily. 

"  I  think  not,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him.  But 
her  tone  wavered  a  little,  and  his  look  grew  still 
more  irritable. 

"  I  shall  destroy  it  !"— he  said,  with  energy — 
"  nothing  more  intolerable  than  ornament  out 
of  place  !" 

"  Oh  don't !— don't  alter  it  at  all  !"  said  a  quick 
imploring  voice 

Manisty  turned  in  astonishment. 

Lucy  Foster  was  looking  at  him  steadily.  A 
glow  of  pleasure  was  on  her  cheek,  her  beautiful 
eyes  were  warm  and  eager.  Manisty  for  the  first 
time  observed  her,  took  note  also  of  tjie  loosened 
hair  and  Eleanors  cloak 

"  You  liked  it  ?"  he  said  with  some  ejnbarrass- 
57 


merit.  He  had  entirely  forgotten  that  she  Was 
in  the  room. 

She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Yes  !" — she  said  softly,  looking  down. 

He  thought  that  she  was  too  shy  to  express 
herself.  In  reality  her  feeling  was  divided  be- 
tween her  old  enthusiasm  and  her  new  disillusion. 
She  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  that  his  reading 
had  reminded  her  of  the  book  she  loved.  But  the 
man,  standing  beside  her,  chilled  her.  She  wished 
she  had  not  spoken.  It  began  to  seem  to  her  a 
piece  of  forwardness. 

"Well,  you're  very  kind  " — he  said,  rather  for- 
mally—" But  I'm  afraid  it  won't  do.  That  lady 
there  won't  pass  it." 

"What  have  I  said?" — cried  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
protesting. 

Manisty  laughed.  "  Nothing.  But  you'll  agree 
with  me."  Then  he  gathered  up  his  papers  un- 
der his  arm  in  a  ruthless  confusion,  and  walked 
away  into  his  study,  leaving  discomfort  behind 
him. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  sat  silent,  a  little  tired  and  pale. 
She  too  would  have  liked  to  praise  and  to  give 
pleasure.  It  was  not  wonderful  indeed  that  the 
child's  fancy  had  been  touched.  That  thrilling, 
passionate  voice — her  own  difficulty  always  was 
to  resist  it — to  try  and  see  straight  in  spite  of  it. 

Later  that  evening,  when  Miss  Foster  had  with- 
drawn, Manisty  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  were  linger- 
ing and  talking  on  a  stone  balcony  that  ran  along 
58 


the  eastern  front  of  the  villa.  The  Campagna 
and  the  sea  were  behind  them.  Here,  beyond  a 
stretch  of  formal  garden,  rose  a  curved  front  of 
wall  with  statues  and  plashing  water  showing 
dimly  in  the  moonlight  ;  and  beyond  the  wall 
there  was  a  space  of  blue  and  silver  lake  ;  and 
girdling  the  lake  the  forest-covered  Monte  Cavo 
rose  towering  into  the  moonlit  sky,  just  showing 
on  its  topmost  peak  that  white  speck  which  once 
was  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  and  is  now, 
alas !  only  the  monument  of  an  Englishman's 
crime  against  history,  art,  and  Rome.  The  air 
was  soft,  and  perfumed  with  scent  from  the  roses 
in  the  side-alleys  below.  A  monotonous  bird- 
note  came  from  the  ilex  darkness,  like  the  note 
of  a  thin  passing  bell.  It  was  the  cry  of  a  small 
owl,  which,  in  its  plaintiveness  and  changeless- 
ness  had  often  seemed  to  Manisty  and  Eleanor 
the  very  voice  of  the  Roman  night. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Burgoyne  said  —  "I  have  a 
different  version  of  your  Nemi  story  running 
in  my  head !— more  tragic  than  yours.  My 
priest  is  no  murderer.  He  found  his  prede- 
cessor dead  under  the  tree  ;  the  place  was  empty; 
he  took  it.  He  won't  escape  his  own  doom,  of 
course,  but  he  has  not  deserved  it.  There  is  no 
blood  on  his  hand — his  heart  is  pure.  There ! — I 
imagine  it  so." 

There  was  a  curious  tremor  in  her  voice,  which 
Manisty,  lost  in  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  detect. 
He  smiled. 

"Well !— you'll  compete  with  Renan.  He  made 
59 


a  satire  out  of  it.  His  priest  is  a  moral  gentle- 
man who  won't  kill  anybody.  But  the  populace 
soon  settle  that.  They  knock  him  on  the  head, 
as  a  disturber  of  religion." 

"  I  had  forgotten — "  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ab- 
sently. 

"  But  you  didn't  like  it,  Eleanor — my  little 
piece  !"  said  Manisty,  after  a  pause.  "  So  don't 
pretend !" 

She  roused  herself  at  once,  and  began  to  talk 
with  her  usual  eagerness  and  sympathy.  It  was 
a  repetition  of  the  scene  before  dinner.  Only 
this  time  her  effect  was  not  so  great.  Manisty's 
depression  did  not  yield. 

Presently,  however,  he  looked  down  upon  her. 
In  the  kind,  concealing  moonlight  she  was  all 
grace  and  charm.  The  man's  easy  tenderness 
awoke. 

"  Eleanor— this  air  is  too  keen  for  that  thin 
dress." 

And  stooping  over  her  he  took  her  cloak  from 
her  arm,  and  wrapped  it  about  her. 

*'  You  lent  it  to  Miss  Foster  " — he  said,  survey- 
ing her.  "  It  became  her — but  it  knows  its  mis- 
tress !" 

The  color  mounted  an  instant  in  her  cheek. 
Then  she  moved  farther  away  from  him. 

"  Have  you  discovered  yet  " — she  said — **  that 
that  girl  is  extraordinarily  handsome  ?" 

"  Oh  yes"— he  said  carelessly — "  with  a  b«in4' 
someness  that  doesn't  matter." 

She  laughed. 

60 


"  Wait  till  Aunt  Pattie  and  I  have  dressed  her 
and  put  her  to  rights." 

"  Well,  you  can  do  most  things  no  doubt — both 
with  bad  books,  and  raw  girls," — he  said,  with  a 
shrug  and  a  sigh. 

They  bade  each  other  good-night,  and  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  disappeared  through  the  glass  door 
behind  them. 

The  moon  was  sailing  gloriously  above  the 
stone-pines  of  the  garden.  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  half 
undressed,  sat  dreaming  in  a  corner  room,  with  a 
high  painted  ceiling,  and  both  its  windows  open 
to  the  night. 

She  had  entered  her  room  in  a  glow  of  some- 
thing  which  had  been  half  torment,  half  happi- 
ness. Now,  after  an  hour's  dreaming,  she  sud- 
denly bent  forward  and,  parting  the  cloud  of  fair 
hair  that  fell  about  her,  she  looked  in  the  glass 
before  her,  at  the  worn,  delicate  face  haloed  with- 
in it — thinking  all  the  time  with  a  vague  misery 
of  Lucy  Foster's  untouched  bloom. 

Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  two  photographs  that 
stood  upon  her  table.  One  represented  a  man 
in  yeomanry  uniform  ;  the  other  a  tottering  child 
of  two. 

"  Oh  !  my  boy — my  darling  !" — she  cried  in  a 
stifled  agony,  and  snatching  up  the  picture,  she 
bowed  her  head  upon  it,  kissing  it.  The  touch  of 
it  calmed  her.  But  she  could  not  part  from  it. 
She  put  it  in  her  brestst,  and  when  she  slept,  it 
wiis  still  there. 


CHAPTER     III 

"1"^  LEANOR— where  are  you  off  to?" 
l"^  "Just  to  my  house  of  Rimmon,"  said 
-■— '  that  lady,  smiling.  She  was  standing  on 
the  eastern  balcony,  buttoning  a  dainty  gray 
glove,  while  Manisty  a  few  paces  from  her  was 
lounging  in  a  deck-chair,  with  the  English  news- 
papers. 

"What? — to  mass?  I  protest.  Look  at  the 
lake  —  look  at  the  sky  —  look  at  that  patch  of 
broom  on  the  lake  side.  Come  and  walk  there 
before  dejeuner  —  and  make  a  round  home  by 
Aricia." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  shook  her  head. 
"  No — I  like  my  little  idolatries,"  she  said,  with 
decision. 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  The  bells  in  Mari- 
nata  were  ringing  merrily.  Women  and  girls  with 
black  lace  scarfs  upon  their  heads,  handsome 
young  men  in  short  coats  and  soft  peaked  hats, 
were  passing  along  the  road  between  the  villa 
and  the  lake,  on  their  way  to  mass.  It  was  a 
warm  April  day.  The  clouds  of  yellow  banksia, 
hanging  over  the  statued  wall  that  girdled  the 
62 


fountain-basin,  were  breaking  into  bloom;  and 
the  nightingales  were  singing  with  a  prodigality 
that  was  hardly  worthy  of  their  rank  and  dig- 
nity. Nature  in  truth  is  too  lavish  of  nightin- 
gales on  the  Alban  Hills  in  spring !  She  forgets, 
as  it  were,  her  own  sweet  arts,  and  all  that  rare- 
ness adds  to  beauty.  One  may  hear  a  nightin- 
gale and  not  mark  him ;  which  is  a  Use  majesty. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne's  toilette  matched  the  morning. 
The  gray  dress,  so  fresh  and  elegant,  the  broad 
black  hat  above  the  fair  hair,  the  violets  dewy 
from  the  garden  that  were  fastened  at  her  slen- 
der waist,  and  again  at  her  throat  beneath  the 
pallor  of  the  face, — these  things  were  of  a  perfec- 
tion quite  evident  to  the  critical  sense  of  Edward 
Manisty.  It  was  the  perfection  that  was  char- 
acteristic. So  too  was  the  faded  fairness  of  hair 
and  skin,  the  frail  distinguished  look.  So,  above 
all,  was  the  contrast  between  the  minute  care 
for  personal  adornment  implied  in  the  finish  of 
the  dress,  and  the  melancholy  shrinking  of  the 
dark-rimmed  eyes. 

He  watched  her,  through  the  smoke  wreaths 
of  his  cigarette, — pleasantly  and  lazily  conscious 
both  of  her  charm  and  her  inconsistencies. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  Miss  Foster?"  he  ask- 
ed her. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  laughed. 

"  I  made  the  suggestion.  She  looked  at  me 
with  amazement,  colored  crimson,  and  went 
away.     I  have  lost  all  my  chances  with  her " 

**  Then  she  must  be  an  ungrateful  minx  " — said 
63 


Manisty,  lowering  his  voice  and  looking  round 
him  towards  the  villa,  "considering  the  pains 
you  take.'* 

"  Some  of  us  must  take  pains,"  said  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  significantly. 

"Some  of  us  do" — he  said,  laughing.  "The 
others  profit. — One  goes  on  praying  for  the  prim- 
itive,— but  when  it  comes — No  ! — it  is  not  per- 
mitted to  be  as  typical  as  Miss  Foster." 

"  Typical  of  what  ?" 

"  The  dissidence  of  Dissent,  apparently — and 
the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion. 
Confess : — it  was  an  odd  caprice  on  the  part  of 
high  Jove  to  send  her  here  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  she  has  a  noble  character — and  an 
excellent  intelligence  !" 

Manisty  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

" — Her  grandfather"  —  continued  the  lady— 
"was  a  divinity  professor  and  wrote  a  book  on 
the  Inquisition  !" — 

Manisty  repeated  his  gesture. 

" — And  as  I  told  you  last  night,  she  is  almost 
as  handsome  as  your  Greek  head — and  very  like 
her." 

"  My  dear  lady — you  have  the  wildest  no- 
tions !" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  picked  up  her  parasol. 

"  Quite  true. — Your  aunt  tells  me  she  was  so 
disappointed,  poor  child,  that  there  was  no  church 
of  her  own  sort  for  her  to  go  to  this  morning." 

"What !"— cried  Manisty — "did  she  expect  a 
cotiventicle  in  the  Pope's  own  town  !" 


For  Marinata  owned  a  Papal  villa  and  had 
once  been  a  favorite  summer  residence  of  the 
Popes. 

"No — but  she  thought  she  might  have  gone 
into  Rome,  and  she  missed  the  trains.  I  found 
her  wandering  about  the  salon  looking  quite 
starved  and  restless." 

"  Those  are  hungers  that  pass  ! — My  heart  is 
hard. — There— your  bell  is  stopping.  Eleanor ! — 
I  wonder  why  you  go  to  these  functions  ?" 

He  turned  to  look  at  her,  his  fine  eye  sharp 
and  a  little  mocking. 

"  Because  I  like  it." 

"Yau  like  the  thought  of  it.  But  when  you 
get  there,  the  reality  won't  please  you  at  all. 
There  will  be  the  dirty  floor,  and  the  bad  music, — 
and  the  little  priest  intoning  through  his  nose — 
and  the  scuffling  boys, — and  the  abominable  pict- 
ures— and  the  tawdry  altars.  Much  better  stay 
at  home — and  help  me  praise  the  Holy  Roman 
Church  from  a  safe  distance  !" 

"What  a  hypocrite  people  would  think  you,  if 
they  could  hear  you  talk  like  that !"  she  said, 
flushing. 

"Then  they  would  think  it  unjustly.— I  don't 
mean  to  be  my  own  dupe,  that's  all." 

"  The  dupes  are  the  happiest,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "  There  is  something  between  them, 
and — Ah!  well,  never  mind!"— 

She  stood  still  a  moment,  looking  across 
the  lake,  her  hands  resting  lightly  on  the  stone 
balustrade  of  the  terrace.  Manisty  watched 
65 


her  in  silence,  occawsionally  puffing  at  his  ciga 
rette. 

"Well,  I  shall  be  back  very  soon,"  she  said, 
gathering  up  her  prayer-book  and  her  parasol. 
"Will  it  then  be  our  duty  to  take  Miss  Foster 
for  a  walk?" 

"  Why  not  leave  her  to  my  aunt  ?" 

She  passed  him  with  a  little  nod  of  farewell. 
Presently,  through  the  openings  of  the  balus- 
trade, Manisty  could  watch  her  climbing  the  vil- 
lage street  with  her  dress  held  high  above  her 
daintily  shod  feet,  a  crowd  of  children  asking  for 
a  halfpenny  following  at  her  heels.  Presently  he 
saw  her  stop  irresolutely,  open  a  little  velvet  bag 
that  hung  from  her  waist  and  throw  a  shower 
of  soldi  among  the  children.  They  swooped  upon 
it,  fighting  and  shrieking. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  looked  at  them  half  smiling, 
half  repentant,  shook  her  head  and  walked  on. 

"  Eleanor — you  coward  !"  said  Manisty,  throw- 
ing himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  silent  laugh. 

Under  his  protection,  or  his  aunt's,  as  he  knew 
well,  Mrs.  Burgoyne  could  walk  past  those  little 
pests  of  children,  even  the  poor  armless  and  leg- 
less horrors  on  the  way  to  Albano,  and  give  a 
firm  adhesion  to  Miss  Manisty's  Scotch  doctrines 
on  the  subject  of  begging.  But  by  herself, 
she  could  not  refuse — she  could  not  bear  to  be 
scowled  on  —  even  for  a  moment.  She  must 
yield  —  must  give  herself  the  luxury  of  being 
liked.  It  was  all  of  a  piece  with  her  weakness 
towards  servants  and  porters  and  cabmen— 
66 


her  absurdities  in  the  way  of  tips  and  gifts — the 
kindnesses  she  had  been  showing  during  the  last 
three  days  to  the  American  girl.  Too  kind !  In- 
sipidity lay  that  way. 

Manisty  returned  to  his  newspapers.  When  he 
had  finished  them  he  got  up  and  began  to  pace 
the  stone  terrace,  his  great  head  bent  forward 
as  usual,  as  though  the  weight  of  it  were  too 
much  for  the  shoulders.  The  newspapers  had 
made  him  restless  again,  had  dissipated  the  good- 
humor  of  the  morning,  born  perhaps  of  the  mere 
April  warmth  and  bien  etre, 

"  Idling  in  a  villa — with  two  women" — he  said 
to  hini»elf,  bitterly — "  while  all  these  things  are 
happening." 

For  the  papers  were  full  of  news — of  battles 
lost  and  won,  on  questions  with  which  he  had 
been  at  one  time  intimately  concerned.  Once  or 
twice  in  the  course  of  these  many  columns  he 
had  found  his  own  name,  his  own  opinion  quoted, 
but  only  as  belonging  to  a  man  who  had  left  the 
field — a  man  of  the  past — politically  dead. 

As  he  stood  there  with  his  hands  upon  his  sides, 
looking  out  over  the  Alban  Lake,  and  its  broom- 
clad  sides,  a  great  hunger  for  London  swept  sud- 
denly upon  him,  for  the  hot  scent  of  its  streets, 
for  its  English  crowd,  for  the  look  of  its  shops 
and  clubs  and  parks.  He  had  a  vision  of  the 
club  writing-room — of  well-known  men  coming  in 
and  going  out — discussing  the  news  of  the  morn- 
ing, the  gossip  of  the  House — he  saw  himself  ac- 
costed as  one  of  the  inner  circle, — he  was  sensibk 
67 


again  of  those  short-lived  pleasures  of  power  and  of- 
fice. Not  that  he  had  cared  half  as  much  for  these 
pleasures,  when  he  had  them,  as  other  men.  To 
affirm  with  him  meant  to  be  already  half-way  on 
the  road  to  doubt ;  contradiction  was  his  charac- 
ter. Nevertheless,  now  that  he  was  out  of  it, 
alone  and  forgotten — now  that  the  game  was  well 
beyond  his  reach — it  had  a  way  of  appearing  to 
him  at  moments  intolerably  attractive  ! 

Nothing  before  him  now,  in  these  long  days  at 
the  villa,  but  the  hours  of  work  'with  Eleanor, 
the  walks  with  Eleanor,  the  meals  with  his  aunt 
and  Eleanor — and  now,  for  a  stimulating  change, 
Miss  Foster  !  The  male  in  him  was  restless.  He 
had  been  eager  to  come  to  the  villa,  and  the  quiet 
of  the  hills,  so  as  to  push  this  long-delaying  book 
to  its  final  end.  And,  behold,  day  by  day,  in  the 
absence  of  the  talk  and  distractions  of  Rome,  a 
thousand  discontents  and  misgivings  were  creep- 
ing upon  him.  In  Rome  he  was  still  a  power. 
In  spite  of  his  strange  detached  position,  it  was 
known  that  he  was  the  defender  of  the  Roman 
system,  the  panegyrist  of  Leo  XIIL,  the  apologist 
of  the  Papal  position  in  Italy.  And  this  had  been 
more  than  enough  to  open  to  him  all  but  the 
very  inmost  heart  of  Catholic  life.  Their  apart- 
ments in  Rome,  to  the  scandal  of  Miss  Manisty's 
Scotch  instincts,  had  been  haunted  by  ecclesias- 
tics of  every  rank  and  kind.  Cardinals,  Italian 
and  foreign,  had  taken  their  afternoon  tea  from 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  hands  ;  the  black  and  white  of 
the  Dominicans,  the  brown  of  the  Franciscans^ 

en 


the  black  of  the  Jesuits, — the  staircase  in  the  Via 
Sistina  had  been  well  acquainted  with  them  all. 
Information  not  usually  available  had  been  placed 
lavishly  at  Manisty's  disposal;  he  had  felt  the 
stir  and  thrill  of  the  great  Catholic  organization 
as  all  its  nerve-threads  gather  to  its  brain  and 
centre  in  the  Vatican.  Nay,  on  two  occasions, 
he  had  conversed  freely  with  Leo  XIII.  him« 
self. 

All  this  he  had  put  aside,  impatiently,  that  he 
might  hurry  on  his  book,  and  accomplish  his 
coup.  And  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  hills,  was 
he  beginning  to  lose  faith  in  the  book,  and 
the  compensation  it  was  to  bring  him  ?  Unless 
this  book,  with  its  scathing  analysis  of  the  dan- 
gers and  difficulties  of  the  secularist  State,  were 
not  only  a  book,  but  an  events  of  what  use  would 
it  be  to  him  ?  He  was  capable  both  of  extrava- 
gant conceit,  and  of  the  most  boundless  tempo- 
rary disgust  with  his  own  doings  and  ideas.  Such 
a  disgust  seemed  to  be  mounting  now  through 
all  his  veins,  taking  all  the  savor  out  of  life 
and  work.  No  doubt  it  would  be  the  same  to 
the  end, — the  politician  in  him  just  strong  enough 
to  ruin  the  man  of  letters — the  man  of  letters  al- 
ways ready  to  distract  and  paralyze  the  politician. 
And  as  for  the  book,  there  also  he  had  been  the 
victim  of  a  double  mind.  He  had  endeavored  to 
make  it  popular,  as  Chateaubriand  made  the 
great  argument  of  the  Genie  du  Christianisme 
popular,  by  the  introduction  of  an  element  of 
poetry  and  romance.  For  the  moment  he  was 
69 


totally  out  of  love  with  the  result.  What  was 
the  plain  man  to  make  of  it?  And  nowadays 
the  plain  man  settles  everything. 

Well ! — if  the  book  came  to  grief,  it  was  not  only 
he  that  would  suffer.— Poor  Eleanor! — poor,  kind, 
devoted  Eleanor ! 

Yet  as  the  thought  of  her  passed  through  his 
meditations,  a  certain  annoyance  mingled  with 
it.  What  if  she  had  been  helping  to  keep  him, 
all  this  time,  in  a  fool's  paradise — hiding  the 
truth  from  him  by  this  soft  enveloping  sympathy 
of  hers  ? 

His  mind  started  these  questions  freely.  Yet 
only  to  brush  them  away  with  a  ^ense  of  shame. 
Beneath  his  outer  controlling  egotism  there  were 
large  and  generous  elements  in  his  mixed  nature. 
And  nothing  could  stand  finally  against  the  mem- 
ory of  that  sweet  all-sacrificing  devotion  which 
had  been  lavished  upon  himself  and  his  work  all 
the  winter ! 

What  right  had  he  to  accept  it  ?  What  did  it 
mean  ?     Where  was  it  leading  ? 

He  guessed  pretty  shrewdly  what  had  been  the 
speculations  of  the  friends  and  acquaintances 
who  had  seen  them  together  in  Rome.  Eleanor 
Burgoyne  was  but  just  thirty,  very  attractive, 
and  his  distant  kinswoman.  As  for  himself,  he 
knew  very  well  that  according  to  the  general 
opinion  of  the  world,  beginning  with  his  aunt, 
it  was  his  duty  to  marry  and  marry  soon.  He 
was  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  he  had  a  property  that 
cried  out  for  an  heir;  and  a  rambling  Georgian 
70 


house  that  would  be  the  better  for  a  mistress. 
He  was  tolerably  sure  that  Aunt  Pattie  had  al- 
ready had  glimpses  of  Eleanor  Burgoyne  in  that 
position. 

Well — if  so,  Aunt  Pattie  was  less  shrewd  than 
usual.  Marriage  !  The  notion  of  its  fetters  and 
burdens  was  no  less  odious  to  him  now  than  it 
had  been  at  twenty.  What  did  he  want  with 
a  wife — still  more,  with  a  son?  The  thought  of 
his  own  life  continued  in  another's  filled  him 
with  a  shock  of  repulsion  Where  was  the  sense 
of  infusing  into  another  being  the  black  drop 
that  poisoned  his  own  ?  A  daughter  perhaps— 
with  the  eyes  of  his  mad  sister  Alice  ?  Or  a  son — 
with  the  contradictions  and  weaknesses,  without 
the  gifts,  of  his  father  ?  Men  have  different 
ways  of  challenging  the  future.  But  that  par- 
ticular way  called  paternity  had  never  in  his 
most  optimistic  moments  appealed  to  Man- 
isty. 

And  of  course  Eleanor  understood  him !  He 
had  not  been  ungrateful.  No  ! — he  knew  well 
enough  that  he  had  the  power  to  make  a  wom- 
an's hours  pass  pleasantly.  Eleanor's  winter 
had  been  a  happy  one  ;  her  health  and  spirits  had 
alike  revived.  Friendship,  as  they  had  known  it, 
was  a  very  rare  and  exquisite  thing.  No  doubt 
when  the  book  was  done  with,  their  relations 
must  change  somewhat.  He  confessed  that  lie 
might  have  been  imprudent ;  that  he  might  have 
been  appropriating  the  energies  and  sympathies 
of  a  delightful  woman,  as  a  man  is  hardly  justi- 
71 


fied  in  doing,  unless — .  But,  after  all,  a  few  weeks 
more  would  see  the  end  of  it ;  and  friends,  dear, 
close  friends,  they  must  always  be. 

For  now  there  was  plenty  of  room  and  leisure 
in  his  life  for  these  subtler  bonds.  The  day  of 
great  passions  was  gone  by.  There  were  one  or 
two  incidents  in  his  earlier  manhood  on  which 
he  could  look  back  with  the  half-triumphant  con- 
sciousness that  no  man  had  dived  deeper  to  the 
heart  of  feeling,  had  drunk  more  wildly,  more 
inventively,  of  passion  than  he,  in  more  than 
one  country  of  Europe,  in  the  East  as  in  the 
West.  These  events  had  occurred  in  those  wan- 
der-years between  twenty  and  thirty,  which  he 
had  spent  in  travelling,  hunting  and  writing,  in 
the  pursuit,  alternately  eager  and  fastidious,  of 
as  wide  an  experience  as  possible.  But  all  that 
was  oyer.  These  things  concerned  another  man, 
in  another  world.  Politics  and  ambition  had 
possessed  him  since,  and  women  now  appealed  to 
other  instincts  in  him — instincts  rather  of  the 
diplomatist  and  intriguer  than  of  the  lover.  Of 
late  years  they  had  been  his  frjends  and  instru- 
ments. And  by  no  unworthy  arts.  They  were 
delightful  to  him ;  and  his  power  with  them  was 
based  on  natural  sympathies  and  divinations  that 
were  perhaps  his  birthright.  His  father  had  had 
the  same  gift.  Why  deny  that  both  his  father 
and  he  had  owed  much  to  women  ?  What  was 
there  to  be  ashamed  of?  His  father  had  been 
one  of  the  ablest  and  most  respected  men  of  his 
4ay,  an4  sq  far  as  English  sppiety  w^s  concerned, 
72 


the  son  had  no  scandal,  nor  the  shadow  of  one, 
upon  his  conscience. 

How  far  did  Eleanor  divine  him  ?  He  raised 
his  shoulder  with  a  smile.  Probably  she  knew 
him  better  than  he  knew  himself.  Besides,  she 
was  no  mere  girl,  brimful  of  illusions  and  dream- 
ing of  love-affairs.  What  a  history  !  —  Good 
Heavens !  Why  had  he  not  known  and  seen 
something  of  her  in  the  days  when  she  was  still 
under  the  tyranny  of  that  intolerable  husband  ? 
He  might  have  eased  the  weight  a  little — pro- 
tected her — as  a  kinsman  may.  Ah  well — better 
not  !     They  were  both  younger  then. — 

As  for  the  present, — let  him  only  extricate  him- 
self from  this  coil  in  which  he  stood,  find  his  way 
back  to  activity  and  his  rightful  place,  and  many 
things  might  look  differently.  Perhaps — who 
could  say  ? — in  the  future — when  youth  was  still 
further  forgotten  by  both  of  them — he  and  Elea- 
nor might  after  all  take  each  other  by  the  hand  — 
sit  down  on  either  side  of  the  same  hearth — their 
present  friendship  pass  into  one  of  another  kind? 
It  was  quite  possible,  only — 

The  sudden  crash  of  a  glass  door  made  him 
look  round.  It  was  Miss  Foster  who  was  hasten- 
ing along  the  enclosed  passage  leading  to  the 
outer  stair.  She  had  miscalculated  the  strength 
of  the  wind  on  the  north  side  of  the  house,  and 
the  glass  door  communicating  with  the  library 
had  slipped  from  her  hand.  She  passed  Manisty 
with  a  rather  scared  penitent  look,  quickly  opened 
the  outer  door,  and  ran  down-stairs. 
D  73 


Manisty  watched  her  as  she  turned  into  the 
garden.  The  shadows  of  the  ilex  avenue  check- 
ered her  straw  bonnet,  her  prim  black  cape,  her 
white  skirt.  There  had  been  no  meddling  of 
freakish  hands  with  her  dark  hair  this  morning. 
It  was  tightly  plaited  at  the  back  of  her  head. 
Her  plain  sunshade,  her  black  kid  gloves  were 
neatness  itself — middle-class,  sabbatical  neatness. 

Manisty  recalled  his  thoughts  of  the  last  half- 
hour  with  a  touch  of  amusement.  He  had  been 
meditating  on  "women" — the  delightfulness  of 
"women,"  his  own  natural  inclination  to  their 
society.    But  how  narrow  is  everybody's  world  ! 

His  collective  noun  of  course  had  referred 
merely  to  that  small  high  -  bred  cosmopolitan 
class  which  presents  types  like  Eleanor  Burgoyne. 
And  here  came  this  girl,  walking  through  his 
dream,  to  remind  him  of  what  "  woman,"  average 
virtuous  woman  of  the  New  or  the  Old  World,  is 
really  like. 

All  the  same,  she  walked  well, — carried  her  head 
remarkably  well.  There  was  a  free  and  spring- 
ing youth  in  all  her  movements  that  he  could 
not  but  follow  with  eyes  that  noticed  all  such 
things  as  she  passed  through  the  old  trees,  and 
the  fragments  of  Graeco-Roman  sculpture  placed 
among  them. 

That  afternoon  Lucy  Foster  was  sitting  by  her- 
self in  the  garden  of  the  villa.     She  had  a  vol- 
ume of  sermons  by  a  famous  Boston  preacher  in 
her  hand,  and  was  alternately  reading — and  look- 
74 


ing.  Miss  Manisty  had  told  her  that  some  visit 
ors  from  Rome  would  probably  arrive  between 
four  and  five  o'clock,  and  close  to  her  indeed  the 
little  butler,  running  hither  and  thither  with  an 
eagerness,  an  anxiety,  an  effusion  that  no  Eng- 
lish servant  would  have  deigned  to  show,  was 
placing  chairs  and  tea-tables  and  putting  out  tea- 
things. 

Presently  indeed  Alfredo  approached  the  silent 
lady  sitting  under  the  trees,  on  tiptoe. 

Would  the  signorina  be  so  very  kind  as  to  come 
and  look  at  the  tables  ?  The  signora — so  all  the 
household  called  Miss  Manisty — had  given  direc- 
tions— but  he,  Alfredo,  was  not  sure — and  it  would 
be  so  sad  if  when  she  came  out  she  were  not 
pleased ' 

Lucy  rose  and  went  to  look.  She  discovered 
some  sugar-tongs  missing.  Alfredo  started  like 
the  wind  in  search  of  them,  running  down  the 
avenue  with  short,  scudding  steps,  his  coat-tails 
streaming  behind  him. 

"  Imperishable  child  !"  Yet  he  had  been  five 
years  in  the  cavalry  ;  he  was  admirably  educated  ; 
he  wrote  a  better  hand  than  Manisty's  own,  and 
when  his  engagement  at  the  villa  came  to  an 
end  he  was  already,  thanks  to  a  very  fair  scien- 
tific knowledge,  engaged  as  manager  in  a  fire- 
work factory  in  Rome. 

Lucy's  look  pursued  the  short  flying  figure  of 
the  butler  with  a  smiling  kindness„    What  a  clev- 
er and  lovable  people  !     What  was  wrong  with 
them  that  Mr.  Manisty  should  never  have  a  good 
75 


word  for  their  institutions,  or  their  history,  or 
their  public  men  ?  Unjust !  Nor  was  he  even 
consistent  with  his  own  creed.  He,  so  moody 
and  silent  with  Mrs.  Burgoyne  and  Miss  Manis- 
ty,  could  always  find  a  smile  and  a  phrase  for  the 
natives.  The  servants  adored  him,  and  all  the 
long  street  of  Marinata  welcomed  him  with 
friendly  eyes.  His  Italian  was  fluency  itself ; 
and  his  handsome  looks  perhaps,  his  keen  com- 
manding air  gave  him  a  natural  kingship  among 
a  susceptible  race. 

But  to  laugh  and  live  with  a  people,  merely 
that  you  might  gibbet  it  before  Europe,  that  you 
might  show  it  as  the  Helot  among  nations — there 
was  a  kind  of  treachery  in  it  !  Lucy  Foster 
remembered  some  of  the  talk  and  feeling  in 
America  after  the  Manistys'  visit  there  had 
borne  fruit  in  certain  hostile  lectures  and  ad- 
dresses on  the  English  side  of  the  water.  She 
hkd  shared  the  feeling.  She  was  angry  still. 
And  her  young  ignorance  and  sympathy  were 
up  in  arms  so  far  on  behalf  of  Italy — Who  and 
what  was  this  critic  that  he  should  blame  so 
freely,  praise  so  little? 

Not  that  Mr.  Manisty  had  so  far  confided  any 
of  his  views  to  her !  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  hardly  spoken  with  him  since  that  first 
evening  of  her  arrival.  But  she  had  heard  fur- 
ther t)ortions  of  his  book  read  aloud,  taken  from 
the  main  fabric  this  time  and  not  from  the  em- 
broideries. The  whole  villa  indeed  was  occu- 
pied, and  pre-occupied  by  the  book.  Mrs.  Bur- 
76 


goyne  was  looking  pale  and  worn  with  the  stress 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  !  The  girl  fell  into  a  wonder- 
ing reverie.  She  was  Mr.  Manisty's  second  cousin 
— she  had  lost  her  husband  and  child  in  some 
frightful  accident — she  was  not  going  to  mar- 
ry Mr.  Manisty  —  at  least  nobody  said  so  —  and 
though  she  went  to  mass,  she  was  not  a  Catho- 
lic, but  on  the  contrary  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  by 
birth,  being  the  daughter  of  a  Scotch  laird  of 
old  family — one  General  Delafield  Muir — ? 

"  She  is  very  kind  to  me,"  thought  Lucy  Fos- 
ter in  a  rush  of  gratitude  mixed  with  some  per- 
plexity.— "  I  don't  know  why  she  takes  so  much 
trouble  about  me.  She  is  so  different — so — so 
fashionable — so  experienced.  She  can't  care  a 
bit  about  me.  Yet  she  is  very  sweet  to  me — to 
everybody,  indeed.     But — " 

And  again  she  lost  herself  in  ponderings  on  the 
relation  of  Mr.  Manisty  to  his  cousin.  She  had 
never  seen  anything  like  it.  The  mere  neighbor- 
hood of  it  thrilled  her,  she  could  not  have  told 
why.  Was  it  the  intimacy  that  it  implied — the 
intimacy  of  mind  and  thought  ?  It  was  like  mar- 
riage— but  married  people  were  more  reserved, 
more  secret.  Yet  of  course  it  was  only  friendship. 
Miss  Manisty  had  said  that  her  nephew  and  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  were  "  very  great  friends."  Well! — One 
read  of  such  things — one  did  not  often  see  them. 

The  sound  of  steps  approaching  made  her  lift 
her  eyes. 


It  was  not  Alfredo,  but  a  young  man,  a  young 
Englishman  apparently,  who  was  coming  towards 
her.  He  was  fair-haired  and  smiling  ;  he  carried 
his  hat  under  his  arm;  and  he  wore  a  light  suit 
and  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole  —  this  was  all  she 
had  time  to  see  before  he  was  at  her  side. 

"  May  I  introduce  myself?  I  must! — Miss  Man- 
isty  told  me  to  come  and  find  you.  I'm  Reggie 
Brooklyn — Mrs.  Burgoyne's  friend.  Haven't  you 
heard  of  me?  I  look  after  her  when  Manisty 
ought  to,  and  doesn't;  I'm  going  to  take  you  all 
to  St.  Peter's  next  week  " 

Lucy  looked  up  to  see  a  charming  face,  lit  by 
the  bluest  of  blue  eyes,  adorned  moreover  by  a 
fair  mustache,  and  an  expression  at  once  confi- 
dent and  appealing. 

Was  this  the  "  delightful  boy  "  from  the  Em- 
bassy Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  announced  to  her? 
No  doubt.  The  color  rose  softly  in  her  cheek. 
She  was  not  accustomed  to  young  gentlemen 
with  such  a  manner  and  such  a  savoir  faire. 

*'  Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  She  moved  sedately 
to  one  side  of  the  bench. 

He  settled  himself  at  once,  fanning  himself 
with  his  hat,  and  looking  at  her  discreetly. 

"You're  American,  aren't  you?  You  don't 
mind  my  asking  you  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Yes ;  it's  my  first  time  in 
Europe." 

"Well,    Italy's    not   bad;    is    it?     Nice   place, 
Rome,  anyway.     Aren't  you  rather  knocked  over 
by  it  ?     I  was  when  I  first  came." 
78 


**  I've  only  been  here  four  days." 

"  And  of  course  nobody  here  has  time  to  take 
you  about.  I  can  guess  that!  How's  the  book 
getting  on  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes 
wide  in  a  smile  that  would  not  be  repressed,  a 
smile  that  broke  like  light  in  her  grave  face. 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  with  approval. 

"My  word!  she's  dowdy" — he  thought — ''like 
a  Sunday-school  teacher.     But  she's  handsome." 

The  real  point  was,  however,  that  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  had  told  him  to  go  out  and  make  himself 
agreeable,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  obey  orders 
from  that  quarter. 

"Doesn't  he  read  it  to  you  all  day  and  all 
night  ?"  he  asked.     *'  That's  his  way." 

*'  I  have  heard  some  of  it.  It's  very  interest- 
ing." 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*'It*s  a  queer  business  that  book.  My  chief 
here  is  awfully  sick  about  it.  So  are  a  good 
many  other  English.  Why  should  an  Englishman 
come  out  here  and  write  a  book  to  run  down 
Italy? — And  an  Englishman  that's  been  in  the 
Government,  too — so  of  course  what  he  says  '11 
have  authority.  Why,  we're  friends  with  Italy — 
we've  always  stuck  up  for  Italy!  When  I  think 
what  he's  writing — and  what  a  row  it  '11  make — I 
declare  I'm  ashamed  to  look  one's  Italian  friends 
in  the  face! — And  just  now,  too,  when  they're 
so  down  on  their  luck." 

For  it  was  the  year  of  the  Abyssinian  disasters ; 
79 


and  the  carnage  of  Adowa  was  not  yet  two 
months  old. 

Lucy's  expression  showed  her  sympathy. 

"What  makes  him — " 

"  Take  such  a  twisted  sort  of  a  line  ?  O  good- 
ness !  what  makes  Manisty  do  anything  ?  Of 
course,  I  oughtn't  to  talk.  I'm  just  an  under- 
strapper— and  he's  a  man  of  genius, — more  or  less 
— we  all  know  that.  But  what  made  him  do  what 
he  did  last  year  ?  I  say  it  was  because  his  chief 
— he  was  in  the  Education  Office  you  know — was 
a  Dissenter,  and  a  jam  manufacturer,  and  had 
mutton-chop  whiskers.  Manisty  just  couldn't 
do  what  he  was  told  by  a  man  like  that.  He's  as 
proud  as  Lucifer.  I  once  heard  him  tell  a  friend 
of  mine  that  he  didn't  know  how  to  obey  anybody 
— he'd  never  learned.  That's  because  they  didn't 
send  him  to  a  public  school — worse  luck ;  that 
was  his  mother's  doing,  I  believe.  She  thought 
him  so  clever- -he  must  be  treated  differently  to 
other  people.  Don't  you  think  that's  a  great 
mistake  ?'* 

"What?" 

"  Why  —  to  prefer  the  cross  -  cuts,  when  you 
might  stick  to  the  high-road  ?" 

The  American  girl  considered.  Then  she 
flashed  into  a  smile. — 

"  I  think  I'm  for  the  cross-cutS  !'* 

"  Ah — that's  because  you're  American.    I  might 

have  known   you'd  say  that.     All  your  people 

want  to  go  one  better  than  anybody  else.     But  I 

can  tell  you  it  doesn't  do  for  Englishmen.     They 

80 


want  their  noses  kept  to  the  grindstone.  That's 
my  experience  !  Of  course  it  was  a  great  pity 
Manisty  ever  went  into  Parliament  at  all.  He'd 
been  abroad  for  seven  or  eight  years,  living  with 
all  the  big-wigs  and  reactionaries  everywhere. 
The  last  thing  in  the  world  he  knew  anything 
about  was  English  politics. — But  then  his  father 
had  been  a  Liberal,  and  a  Minister  for  ever  so 
long.  And  when  Manisty  came  home,  and  the 
member  for  his  father's  division  died,  I  don't 
deny  it  was  very  natural  they  should  put  him  in. 
And  he's  such  a  queer  mixture,  I  dare  say  he 
didn't  know  himself  where  he  was. — But  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing — '* 

He  shook  his  head  slowly, — with  all  the  airs  of 
the  budding  statesman. 

"  When  you've  joined  a  party, — you  must  dine 
with  'em-.^It  don't  sound  much — but  I  declare 
it's  the  root  of  everything.  Now  Manisty  was 
always  dining  with  the  other  side.  All  the  great 
Tory  ladies, — and  the  charming  High  Church- 
women,  and  the  delightful  High  Churchmen — 
and  they  are  nice  fellows,  I  can  tell  you ! — got  hold 
of  him.  And  then  it  came  to  some  question 
about  these  beastly  schools — don't  you  wish  they 
were  all  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ? — and  I  suppose 
his  chief  was  more  annoying  than  usual — (oh,  but 
he  had  a  number  of  other  coolnesses  on  his  hands 
by  that  time — he  wasn't  meant  to  be  a  Liberal !) 
and  his  friends  talked  to  him — and  so —  Ah  ! 
there  they  are!" 

And  lifting  his  hat,  the  young  man  waved  it 
8i 


towards  Mrs.  Burgoyne  who  with  Manisty  and 
three  or  four  other  companions  had  just  become 
visible  at  the  farther  end  of  the  ilex  avenue 
which  stretched  from  their  stone  bench  to  the 
villa. 

"Why,  that's  my  chief,"— he  cried— "I  didn't 
think  he  was  to  be  here  this  afternoon.  I  say, 
do  you  know  my  chief  ?" 

And  he  turned  to  her  with  the  brightest,  most 
confiding  manner,  as  though  he  had  been  the 
friend  of  her  cradle. 

"Who?"  — said  Lucy,  bewildered  — "the  tall 
gentleman  with  the  white  hair?" 

"Yes, — that's  the  ambassador.  Oh!  I'm  glad 
you'll  see  him.  He's  a  charmer,  is  our  chief! 
And  that's  his  married  daughter,  who's  keeping 
house  for  him  just  now.— I'll  tell  you  something, 
if  you'll  keep  a  secret," — he  bent  towards  her, — 
"  He  likes  Mrs.  Burgoyne  of  course, — everybody 
does — but  he  don't  take  Manisty  at  his  own  val- 
uation. I've  heard  him  say  some  awfully  good 
things  to  Manisty — you'd  hardly  think  a  man 
would  get  over  them. — Who's  that  on  the  other 
side?" 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
then  burst  iruto  a  laugh. — 

"  Why,  it's  the  other  man  of  letters  !— Bellasis. 
I  should  think  you've  read  some  of  his  poems — 
or  plays  ?  Rome  has  hardly  been  able  to  hold 
the  two  of  them  this  winter.  It's  worse  than  the 
archaeologists.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  is  always  trying 
to  be  civil  to  him,  so  that  he  mayn't  mal?^  U»- 
89 


civil  remarks  about  Manisty.     I  say — don't  you 
think  she's  delightful?" 

He  lowered  his  voice  as  he  looked  round  upon 
his  companion,  but  his  blue  eyes  shone. 

"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?" — said  Lucy — "  Yes,  indeed  ! 
— She's  so — so  very  kind." 

"  Oh  !  she's  a  darling,  is  Eleanor  Burgoyne. 
And  I  may  call  her  that,  you  know,  for  I'm  her 
cousin,  just  as  Manisty  is — only  on  the  other  side. 
I  have  been  trying  to  look  after  her  a  bit  this 
winter  in  Rome ;  she  never  looks  after  herself. 
And  she's  not  a  bit  strong. — You  know  her  his- 
tory of  course  ?" 

He  lowered  his  voice  with  young  importance, 
speaking  almost  in  a  whisper,  though  the  advanc- 
ing party  were  still  far  away.  Lucy  shook  her 
head. 

"  Well,  it's  a  ghastly  tale,  and  I've  only  a  min- 
ute.— Her  husband,  you  see,  had  pneumonia— 
they  were  in  Switzerland  together,  and  he'd 
taken  a  chill  after  a  walk — and  one  night  he  was 
raving  mad,  mad  you  understand  with  delirium 
and  fever — and  poor  Eleanor  was  so  ill,  they  had 
.  taken  her  away  from  her  husband,  and  put  her 
to  bed  on  the  other  side  of  the  hotel. — And  there 
was  a  drunken  nurse — it's  almost  too  horrible, 
isn't  it  ?— and  while  she  was  asleep  Mr.  Burgoyne 
got  up,  quite  mad — and  he  went  into  the  next 
room,  where  the  baby  was,  without  waking  any- 
body, and  he  took  the  child  out  asleep  in  his 
arms,  back  to  his  own  room  where  the  windows 
were  open,  and  there  he  threw  himself  and  the 
83 


boy  out  together  —  headlong!  The  hotel  was 
high  up, — built,  one  side  of  it,  above  a  rock  wall, 
with  a  stream  below  it. — There  had  been  a  great 
deal  of  rain,  and  the  river  was  swollen.  The 
bodies  were  not  found  for  days. — When  poor 
Eleanor  woke  up,  she  had  lost  everything. — Oh  ! 
I  dare  say,  when  the  first  shock  was  over,  the 
husband  didn't  so  much  matter — he  hadn't  made 
her  at  all  happy. — But  the  child  !" — 

He  stopped,  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  gay  voice  could 
be  heard  as  she  approached.  All  the  elegance  of 
the  dress  was  visible,  the  gleam  of  a  diamond 
at  the  throat,  the  flowers  at  the  waist.  Lucy 
Foster's  eyes,  dim  with  sudden  tears,  fastened 
themselves  upon  the  slender,  advancing  form. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  party  grouped  themselves  round  the 
tea-tables.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  laid  a  kind 
hand  on  Lucy  Foster's  arm,  and  intro- 
duced one  or  two  of  the  new-comers. 

Then,  while  Miss  Manisty,  a  little  apart,  lent 
her  ear  to  the  soft  chat  of  the  ambassador,  who 
sat  beside  her,  supporting  a  pair  of  old  and  very 
white  hands  upon  a  gold-headed  stick,  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne busied  herself  with  Mr.  Bellasis  and  his 
tea.  For  he  was  anxious  to  catch  a  train,  and 
had  but  a  short  time  to  spare. 

He  was  a  tall  stiffly  built  man,  with  a  heavy 
white  face,  and  a  shock  of  black  hair  combed  into 
a  high  and  birdlike  crest.  As  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
attentions,  he  received  them  with  a  somewhat 
pinched  but  still  smiling  dignity.  Manisty,  mean- 
while, a  few  feet  away,  was  fidgeting  on  his 
chair,  in  one  of  his  most  unmanageable  moods. 
Around  him  were  two  or  three  young  men  bear- 
ing the  great  names  of  Rome.  They  all  belonged 
to  the  Guardia  Nobile,  and  were  all  dressed  by 
English  tailors.  Two  of  them,  moreover,  were 
the  sons  of  English  mothers.  They  were  laugh- 
85 


ing  and  joking  together,  and  every  now  and  then 
they  addressed  their  host.  But  he  scarcely  re- 
plied. He  gathered  stalk  after  stalk  of  grass 
from  the  ground  beside  him,  nibbled  it  and  threw 
it  away — a  constant  habit  of  his  when  he  was 
annoyed  or  out  of  .spirits. 

"  So  you  have  read  my  book  ?"  said  Mr.  Bellasis 
pleasantly,  addressing  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  as  she 
handed  him  a  cup  of  tea.  The  book  in  question 
was  long ;  it  revived  the  narrative  verse  of  our 
grandfathers ;  and  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  a 
"  set "  the  world  was  not  disposed  to  take  much 
notice  of  it. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  We  liked  it  so  much. — But  I 
think  when  I  wrote  to  you  I  told  you  what  we 
thought  about  it  ?" 

And  she  glanced  towards  Manisty  for  support. 
He,  however,  did  not  apparently  hear  what  she 
said.  Mr.  Bellasis  also  looked  round  in  his  di- 
rection ;  but  in  vain.     The  poet's  face  clouded. 

"  May  I  ask  what  reading  you  are  at  ?"  he  said, 
returning  to  his  tea. 

"  What  reading  ?" — Mrs.  Burgoyne  looked  puz- 
zled. 

"  Have  you  read  it  more  than  once  ?" 

She  colored. 

"  No.— I'm  afraid—" 

"Ah! — my  friends  tell  me  in  Rome  that  the 
book  cannot  be  really  appreciated  except  at  a 
second  or  third  reading — " 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  looked  up  in  dismay,  as  a  shower 
of  gravel  descended  on  the  tea-table  Manisty 
86 


had  just  beckoned  in  haste  to  his  great  Newfound- 
land who  was  lying  stretched  on  the  gravel  path, 
and  the  dog  bounding  towards  him,  seemed  to 
have  brought  the  path  with  him. 

Mr.  Bellasis  impatiently  shook  some  fragments 
of  gravel  from  his  coat,  and  resumed  : — 

"  I  have  just  got  a  batch  of  the  first  reviews. 
Really  criticism  has  become  an  absurdity!  Did 
you  look  at  the  *  Sentinel  *  ?" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  hesitated. 

"  Yes — I  saw  there  was  something  about  the 
style—" 

"  The  style  !" — Mr.  Bellasis  threw  himself  back 
in  his  chair  and  laughed  loud — "Why,  the  style 
is  done  with  a  magnifying-glass  ! — There's  not  a 
phrase, — not  a  word  that  I  don't  stand  by." 

**  Mr.  Bellasis" — said  the  courteous  voice  of  the 
ambassador — "  are  you  going  by  this  train  ?" 

The  great  man  held  out  his  watch. 

"Yes  indeed — and  I  must  catch  it!"  cried  the 
man  of  letters.  He  started  to  his  feet,  and  bend- 
ing over  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  he  said  in  an  aside  per- 
fectly audible  to  all  the  world — "  I  read  my  new 
play  to-night — just  finished — at  Madame  Sal- 
vi's !" 

Eleanor  smiled  and  congratulated  him.  He 
took  his  leave,  and  Manisty  in  an  embarrassed 
silence  accompanied  him  half-way  down  the  ave- 
nue. 

Then  returning,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair 
near  Lucy  Foster  and  young  Brooklyn,  with  a 
sigli  of  relief. 

«7 


'*  Intolerable  ass  I" — he  said  under  his  breath, 
as  though  quite  unconscious  of  any  by-stander. 

The  young  man  looked  at  Lucy  with  eyes  that 
danoed. 

"  Who  is  your  young  lady  ?**  said  the  ambassa- 
dor. 

Miss  Manisty  explained. 

"  An  American  ?  Really  ?  I  was  quite  off  the 
scent.  But  now — I  see — I  see  !  Let  me  guess. 
She  is  a  New  Englander — not  from  Boston,  but 
from  the  country.  I  remember  the  type  exactly. 
The  year  I  was  at  Washington  I  spent  some  weeks 
in  the  summer  convalescing  at  a  village  up  in  the 
hills  of  Maine. — The  women  there  seemed  to  me 
the  salt  of  the  earth.  May  I  go  and  talk  to 
her  ?" 

Miss  Manisty  led  him  across  the  circle  to  Lucy, 
and  introduced  him. 

"  Will  you  take  me  to  the  terrace  and  show  me 
St.  Peter's  ?  I  know  one  can  see  it  from  here," 
said  the  suave  polished  voice. 

Lucy  rose  in  a  shy  pleasure  that  became  her. 
The  thought  flashed  happily  through  her,  as 
she  walked  beside  the  old  man,  that  Uncle 
Ben  would  like  to  hear  of  it  ?  She  had  that  "  re- 
spect of  persons "  which  Comes  not  from  snob- 
bishness, but  from  imagination  and  sympathy. 
The  man's  office  thrilled  her,  not  his  title. 

The  ambassador's  shrewd  eyes  ran  over  her 
facte  and  bearing,  taking  note  of  all  the  signs  6t 
character.  Then  he  began  to  talk,  exerting  himself 
8^ 


as  he  had  not  exerted  himself  that  morning  tor  a 
princess  who  had  lunched  at  his  table.  And  as 
he  was  one  of  the  enchanters  of  his  day,  known 
for  such  in  half  a  dozen  courts,  and  two  hemi- 
spheres, Lucy  Foster's  walk  was  a  walk  of  delight. 
There  was  only  one  drawback.  She  had  heard 
other  members  of  the  party  say  "Your  Excel- 
lency"—  and  somehow  her  lips  would  not  pro- 
noimce  it !  Yet  so  kind  and  kingly  was  the  old 
man,  there  was  no  sign  of  homage  she  would  not 
have  gladly  paid  him,  if  she  had  known  how. 

They  emerged  at  last  upon  the  stone  terrace 
at  the  edge  of  the  garden  looking  out  upon  the 
Campagna. 

"  Ah  !  there  it  is  !" — said  the  ambassador,  and, 
walking  to  the  corner  of  the  terrace,  he  pointed 
northwards. 

And  there  —  just  caught  between  two  stone- 
pines — in  the  dim  blue  distance  rose  the  great 
dome. 

"  Doesn't  it  give  you  an  emotion  ?"  he  said, 
smiling  down  upon  her. — "  When  I  first  stayed 
on  these  hills  I  wrote  a  poem  about  it — a  very  bad 
poem.  There's  a  kind  of  miracle  in  it,  you  know. 
Go  where  you  will,  that  dome  follows  you.  Again 
and  again,  storm  and  mist  may  blot  out  the  rest 
,  — that  remains.  The  peasants  on  these  hills  have 
a  superstition  about  it.  They  look  for  that  dome 
as  they  look  for  the  sun.  When  they  can't  see  it, 
they  are  unhappy — they  expect  some  calamity. — 
It's  a  symbol,  isn't  it,  an  idea  ? — and  those  are  the 
things  that  touch  us.  I  have  a  notion  " — he  turned 
89 


to  her  smiling,  *'that  it  will  come  into  Mr.  Man- 
isty's  book  ?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  smiling  assent. 

"  Well,  there  are  symbols — and  symbols.  That 
dome  makes  my  old  heart  beat  because  it  speaks 
of  so  much — half  the  history  of  our  race.  But 
looking  back — I  remember  another  symbol — I 
was  at  Harvard  in  '69  ;  and  I  remember  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  those  tablets — you  recollect — in 
the  Memorial  Hall — to  the  Harvard  men  that  fell 
in  the  war  ?" 

The  color  leaped  into  her  cheek.  Her  eyes 
filled. 

"  Oh  yes!  yes!" — she  said,  half  eager,  half  timid 
— "  My  father  lost  two  brothers ;  both  their  names 
are  there." 

The  ambassador  looked  at  her  kindly. 

— "  Well— be  proud  of  it !— be  proud  of  it!  That 
wall,  those  names,  that  youth,  and  death — they 
remain  with  me,  as  the  symbol  of  the  other  great 
majesty  in  the  world  !  There's  one," — he  pointed 
to  the  dome, — "that's  Religion.  And  the  other's 
Country.  It's  country  that  Mr.  Manisty  forgets 
—isn't  it  ?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  fell  silent, 
looking  out  over  the  cloud-flecked  Campagna. 

"Ah,  well," — he  said,  rousing  himself — "  I  must 
go.  Will  you  come  and  see  me?  My  daughter 
shall  write  to  you." 

And   five  minutes  later  the   ambassador  was 
driving  swiftly  towards  Rome,  in  a  good-humor 
with  himself  and  the  day.     He  had  that  morn 
90 


ing  sent  off  what  he  knew  to  be  a  masterly  de- 
spatch, and  in  the  afternoon,  as  he  was  also  quite 
conscious,  he  had  made  a  young  thing  happy. 

Manisty  could  not  attend  the  ambassador  to 
his  carriage.  He  was  absorbed  by  another  guest. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne,  young  Brooklyn,  and  Lucy,  paid 
the  necessary  civilities. 

When  they  returned,  they  found  a  fresh  group 
gathered  on  the  terrace.  Two  persons  made  the 
centre  of  it — a  gray-haired  cardinal — and  Man- 
isty, 

Lucy  looked  at  her  host  in  amazement.  What 
a  transformation !  The  man  who  had  been 
lounging  and  listless  all  the  afternoon — barely 
civil  to  his  guests — making  no  effort  indeed  for 
any  one,  was  now  another  being.  An  hour  be- 
fore he  had  been  in  middle  age  ;  now  he  was 
young,  handsome,  courteous,  animating,  and 
guiding  the  conversation  around  him  with  the 
practised  ease  of  one  who  knew  himself  a  master. 

Where  was  the  spell  ?    The  Cardinal  ? 

The  Cardinal  sat  to  Manisty's  right,  one  wrin- 
kled hand  resting  on  the  neck  of  the  Newfound- 
land. It  was  a  typical  Italian  face,  large-cheeked 
and  large-jawed,  with  good  eyes, — a  little  sleepy, 
but  not  unspiritual.  His  red-edged  cassock  al- 
lowed a  glimpse  of  red  stockings  to  be  seen,  and 
his  finely  worked  cross  and  chain,  his  red  sash, 
and  the  bright  ribbon  that  lit  up  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  made  spots  of  cheerful  color  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees. 

91 


He  was  a  Cardinal  of  the  Curia,  belonging 
indeed  to  the  Congregation  of  the  Index,  The 
vulgar  believed  that  he  was  staying  on  the  hills 
for  his  health. 

The  initiated,  however,  knew  that  he  had  come 
to  these  heights,  bringing  with  him  the  works  of 
a  certain  German  Catholic  professor  threatened 
with  the  thunders  of  the  Church.  It  was  a  mat- 
ter that  demanded  leisure  and  a  quiet  mind. 

As  he  sat  sipping  Miss  Manisty's  tea,  however, 
nothing  could  be  divined  of  those  scathing  Latin 
sheets  on  whi  ^h  he  had  left  his  secretary  em- 
ployed. He  had  the  air  of  one  at  peace  with  all 
the  world — hardly  stirred  indeed  by  the  brilliance 
of  his  host. 

"  Italy  again!" — said  Reggie  Brooklyn  in  Lucy's 
ear — "  poor  old  Italy  ! — one  might  be  sure  of 
that,  when  one  sees  one  of  these  black  gentlemen 
about." 

The  Cardinal  indeed  had  given  Manisty  his 
text.  He  had  brought  an  account  of  some  fresh 
vandalism  of  the  government — the  buildings  of 
an  old  Umbrian  convent  turned  to  government 
uses — the  disappearance  of  some  famous  pictures 
in  the  process,  supposed  to  have  passed  into  the 
hands  of  a  Paris  dealer  by  the  connivance  of  a 
corrupt  official. 

The  story  had  roused  Manisty  to  a  white  heat. 
This  maltreatment  of  religious  buildings  and  the 
wasting  of  their  treasures  was  a  subject  on  which 
he  was  inexhaustible.  Encouraged  by  the  slow 
smile  of  the  Cardinal,  the  laughter  and  applause 
92 


of  the  young  men,  he  took  the  history  of  a  mon- 
astery in  the  mountains  of  Spoleto,  which  had 
long  been  intimately  known  to  him,  and  told  it, — 
with  a  variety,  a  passion,  an  irony,  that  only  he 
could  achieve — that  at  last  revealed  indeed  to 
Lucy  Foster,  as  she  sat  quivering  with  antag- 
onism beside  Miss  Manisty,  all  the  secret  of  the 
man's  fame  and  power  in  the  world. 

For  gradually — from  the  story  of  this  monas- 
tery, and  its  suppression  at  the  hands  of  a  few 
Italian  officials  —  he  built  up  a  figure,  typical, 
representative,  according  to  him,  of  the  New 
Italy,  small,  insolent,  venal, — insulting  and  de- 
spoiling the  Old  Italy,  venerable,  beautiful  and 
defenceless.  And  then  a  natural  turn  of  thought, 
or  a  suggestion  from  one  of  the  group  surround- 
ing him,  brought  him  to  the  scandals  connected 
with  the  Abyssinian  campaign — to  the  charges 
of  incompetence  and  corruption  which  every 
Radical  paper  was  now  hurling  against  the  Cris- 
pi  government.  He  gave  the  latest  gossip,  hand- 
ling it  lightly,  inexorably,  as  one  more  symptom 
of  an  inveterate  disease,  linking  the  men  of  the 
past  with  the  men  of  the  present,  spattering  all 
with  the  same  mud,  till  Italian  Liberalism,  from 
Cavour  to  Crispi,  sat  shivering  and  ugly — strip- 
ped of  all  those  pleas  and  glories  wherewith  she 
had  once  stepped  forth  adorned  upon  the  page 
of  history. 

Finally— with  the  art  of  the  accomplished  talker 
— a  transition  !  Back  to  the  mountains,  and  the 
lonely  convent  on  the  heights — to  the  handful  of 
93 


monks  left  in  the  old  sanctuary,  handing  on  the 
past,  waiting  for  the  future,  heirs  of  a  society 
which  would  destroy  and  outlive  the  New  Italy, 
as  it  had  destroyed  and  outlived  the  Old  Rome, 
— offering  the  daily  sacrifice  amid  the  murmur 
and  solitude  of  the  woods, — confident,  peaceful, 
unstained ;  while  the  new  men  in  the  valleys 
below  peculated  and  bribed,  swarmed  and  sweat 
ed,  in  the  mire  of  a  profitless  and  purposeless 
corruption. 

And  all  this  in  no  set  harangue,  but  in  vivid 
broken  sentences;  in  snatches  of  paradox  and 
mockery;  of  emotion  touched  and  left;  inter- 
rupted, moreover,  by  the  lively  give  and  take 
of  conversation  with  the  young  Italians,  by  the 
quiet  comments  of  the  Cardinal.  None  the  less, 
the  whole  final  image  emerged,  as  Manisty  meant 
it  to  emerge ;  till  the  fascinated  hearers  felt,  as 
it  were,  a  breath  of  hot  bitterness  and  hate  pass 
between  them  and  the  spring  day,  enveloping 
the  grim  phantom  of  a  ruined  and  a  doomed 
State. 

The  Cardinal  said  little.  Every  now  and  then 
he  put  in  a  fact  of  his  own  knowledge — a  stroke 
of  character  —  a  phrase  of  compassion  that  bit 
more  sharply  even  than  Manisty's  scorns  —  a 
smile — a  shake  of  the  head.  And  sometimes,  as 
Manisty  talked  with  the  young  men^  the  sharp 
wrinkled  eyes  rested  upon  the  Englishman  with 
a  scrutiny,  instantly  withdrawn.  All  the  caution 
of  the  Roman  ecclesiastic,  —  the  inheritance  of 
centuries — spoke  in  the  glance. 
94 


It  was  perceived  by  no  one,  however,  but  a 
certain  dark  elderly  lady,  who  was  sitting  rest- 
lessly silent  beside  Miss  Manisty.  Lucy  Foster 
had  noticed  her  as  a  new-comer,  and  believed  that 
her  name  was  Madame  Variani. 

As  for  Eleanor  Burgoyne,  she  sat  on  Manisty's 
left  while  he  talked  —  it  was  curious  to  notice 
how  a  place  was  always  made  for  her  beside  him  ! 
— her  head  raised  a  little  towards  him,  her  eyes 
bright  and  fixed.  The  force  that  breathed  from 
him  passed  through  her  frail  being,  quickening 
every  pulse  of  life.  She  neither  criticised  nor 
accepted  what  he  said.  It  was  the  man's  splen- 
did vitality  that  subdued  and  mastered  her. 

Yet  she  alone  knew  what  no  one  else  suspect- 
ed. At  the  beginning  of  the  conversation  Man- 
isty had  placed  himself  behind  an  old  stone 
table  of  oblong  shape  and  thick  base,  of  which 
there  were  several  on  the  terrace.  Round  it  grew 
up  grasses  and  tall  vetches  which  had  sown  them- 
selves among  the  gaping  stones  of  the  terrace. 
Nothing,  therefore,  could  be  seen  of  the  talker 
as  he  leaned  carelessly  across  the  table  but  the 
magnificent  head,  and  the  shoulders  on  which  it 
was  so  freely  and  proudly  carried. 

Anybody  noticing  the  effect  —  for  it  was  an 
effect — would  have  thought  it  a  mere  happy  ac- 
cident. Eleanor  Burgoyne  alone  knew  that  it 
was  conscious.  She  had  seen  the  same  pose,  the 
same  concealment  practised  too  often  to  be  mis- 
taken. But  it  made  no  difference  whatever  to 
the  spell  that  held  her.  The  small  vanities  and 
95 


miseries  of  Manisty's  nature  were  all  known  to 
her — and  alas!  she  would  not  have  altered  one 
of  them  ! 

When  the  Cardinal  rose  to  go,  two  Italian 
girls,  who  had  come  with  their  brother,  the  Count 
Casaleschi,  ran  forward,  and  courtesying  kissed 
the  Cardinal's  ring.  And  as  he  walked  away, 
escorted  by  Manisty,  a  gardener  crossed  the  av- 
enue, who  also  at  sight  of  the  tall  red -sashed 
figure  fell  on  his  knees  and  did  the  same.  The 
Cardinal  gave  him  an  absent  nod  and  smile,  and 
passed  on. 

"  Ah  !  f^touffe  r  —  cried  Madame  Variani, 
throwing  herself  down  by  Miss  Manisty,  "  Give 
me  another  cup,  chere  madame.  Your  nephew  is 
too  bad.  Let  him  show  us  another  nation  born 
in  forty  years — that  has  had  to  make  itself  in  a 
generation — let  him  show  it  us  !  Ah  ?  you  Eng- 
lish— with  all  your  advantages — and  your  proud 
hearts. — Perhaps  we  too  could  pick  some  holes 
in  you  !" 

She  fanned  herself  with  angry  vigor.  The 
young  men  came  to  stand  round  her  arguing 
and  laughing.  She  was  a  favorite  in  Rome,  and 
as  a  Frenchwoman,  and  the  widow  of  a  Floren- 
tine man  of  letters,  occupied  a  somewhat  inde- 
pendent position,  and  was  the  friend  of  many 
different  groups. 

"And  you — young  lady,  what  do  you  think?" 
— she  said  suddenly,  laying  a  large  hand  on  Lucy 
Foster's  knee. 

96 


Lucy,  startled,  looked  into  the  sparkling  black 
eyes  brought  thus  close  to  her  own. 

"But  I  just  long'' — she  said,  catching  her  breath 
— "to  hear  the  other  side." 

"  Ah,  and  you  shall  hear  it,  my  dear — you  shall !" 
tried  Madame  Variani.  ^''N'esUje  paSy  madame  f " 
she  said,  addressing  Miss  Manisty  —  "We  will 
get  rid  of  all  those  priests  —  and  then  we  will 
speak  our  mind  ?  Oh,  and  you  too," — she  waved 
her  hand  with  a  motherly  roughness  towards 
the  young  men, — "What  do  you  know  about  it, 
Signer  Marchese  ?  If  there  were  no  Guardia  No- 
bile,  you  would  not  wear  those  fine  uniforms. — 
That  is  why  you  like  the  Pope." 

The  Marchese  Vitellucci — a  charming  boy  of 
two  and  twenty,  tall,  thin -faced  and  pensive, — 
laughed  and  bowed. 

"  The  Pope,  madame,  should  establish  some 
dames  d'honneiir.  Then  he  would  have'  all  the 
ladies  too  on  his  side." 

"  Oy  mon  Dieu  ! — he  has  enough  of  them,"  cried 
Madame  Variani.  "  But  here  comes  Mr.  Manisty, 
I  must  drink  my  tea  and  hold  my  tongue.  I  am 
going  out  to  dinner  to-night,  and  if  one  gets 
hot  and  cross,  that  is  not  good  for  the  com- 
plexion." 

Manisty  advanced  at  his  usual  quick  pace,  his 
head  sunk  once  more  between  his  shoulders. 

Young  Vitellucci  approached  him.  "  Ah ! 
Carlo!"  he  said,  looking  up  affectionately — "dear 
fellow  ! — Come  for  a  stroll  with  me." 

And  linking  his  arm  in  the  young  man's,  he 
97 


carried  him  off.  Their  peals  of  laughter  could 
be  heard  coming  back  from  the  distance  of  the 
ilex  walk. 

Madame  Variani  tilted  back  her  chair  to  look 
after  them. 

"  Ah !  your  nephew  can  be  agreeable  too,  when 
he  likes,"  she  said  to  Miss  Manisty.  "  I  do  not 
say  no.  But  when  he  talks  of  these  poor  Italians, 
he  is  m^chant — m^chant  !'* 

As  for  Lucy  Foster,  as  Manisty  passed  out  of 
sight,  she  felt  her  pulses  still  tingling  with  a 
wholly  new  sense  of  passionate  hostility — dislike 
even.  But  none  the  less  did  the  stage  seem  empty 
and  meaningless  when  he  had  left  it. 

Manisty  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  were  closeted  in 
the  library  for  some  time  before  dinner.  Lucy 
in  the  salon  could  hear  him  pacing  up  and  down, 
and  the*deep  voice  dictating. 

Then  Mrs.  Burgoyne  came  into  the  salon,  and 
not  noticing  the  girl  who  was  hidden  behind  a 
great  pot  of  broom  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  with 
a  long  sigh  of  fatigue.  Lucy  could  just  see  the 
pale  face  against  the  pillow  and  the  closed  eyes. 
Thus  abandoned  and  at  rest,  there  was  something 
strangely  pitiful  in  the  whole  figure,  for  all  its 
grace. 

A  wave  of  feeling  rose  in  the  girl's  breast. 
She  slipped  softly  from  her  hiding-place,  took  a 
silk  blanket  that  was  lying  on  a  chair,  and  ap- 
proached Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"  Let  me  put  this  over  you.  Won't  you  sleep 
98 


before  dinner?  And  I  will  shut  the  window.  It 
is  getting  cold." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  opened  her  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment, and  murmured  a  few  words  of  thanks. 

Lucy  covered  her  up,  closed  the  window,  and 
was  stealing  away,  when  Mrs.  Burgoyne  put  out 
a  hand  and  touched  her. 

"  It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  think  of  me." 

She  drew  the  girl  to  her,  enclosed  the  hand  she 
had  taken  in  both  hers,  pressed  it  and  released  it. 
Lucy  went  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

Then  till  dinner  she  sat  reading  her  New  Testa- 
ment, and  trying  rather  piteously  to  remind  her- 
self that  it  was  Sunday.  Far  away  in  a  New 
England  village,  the  bells  were  ringing  for  the 
evening  meeting.  Lucy,  shutting  her  eyes,  could 
smell  the  spring  scents  in  the  church  lane,  could 
hear  the  droning  of  the  opening  hymn.  A  vague 
mystical  peace  stole  upon  her,  as  she  recalled  the 
service;  the  great  words  of  "sin,"  "  salvation,'* 
"  righteousness,"  as  the  Evangelical  understands 
them,  thrilled  through  her  heart. 

Then,  as  she  rose  to  dress,  there  burst  upon  her 
through  the  open  window  the  sunset  blaze  of  the 
Campagna  with  the  purple  dome  in  its  midst. 
And  with  that  came  the  memory  of  the  after- 
noon,— of  tne  Cardinal — and  Manisty. 

Very  often,  in  these  first  days,  it  was  as  though 
her  mind  ached,  under  the  stress  of  new  think- 
ing, like  something  stretched  and  sore.  In  the 
New  England  house  where  she  had  grown  up,  a 
corner  of  the  old-fashioned  study  was  given  up 
99 


to  the  books  of  her  grandfather,  the  divinity  pro- 
fessor. They  were  a  small  collection,  all  gathered 
with  one  object, — the  confuting  and  confronting 
of  Rome.  Like  many  another  Protestant  zealot, 
the  old  professor  had  brooded  on  the  crimes  and 
cruelties  of  persecuting  Rome,  till  they  became 
a  madness  in  the  blood.  How  well  Lucy  remem- 
bered his  books — with  their  backs  of  faded  gray 
or  brown  cloths,  and  their  grim  titles.  Most  of 
them  she  had  never  yet  been  allowed  to  read. 
When  she  looked  for  a  book,  she  was  wont  to 
pass  this  shelf  by  in  a  vague  horror.  What  Rome 
habitually  did  or  permitted,  what  at  any  rate  she 
had  habitually  done  or  permitted  in  the  past, 
could  not — it  seemed — be  known  by  a  pure  wom- 
an !  And  she  would  glance  from  the  books  to 
the  engraving  of  her  grandfather  above  them, — 
to  the  stern  and  yet  delicate  face  of  the  old  Cal- 
vinist,  with  its  high -peaked  brow,  and  white 
neckcloth  supporting  the  sharp  chin ;  lifting  her 
heart  to  him  in  a  passionate  endorsement,  a  com- 
mon fierce  hatred  of  wrong  and  tyranny. 

She  had  grown  older  since  then,  and  her  coun- 
try with  her.  New  England  Puritanism  was  no 
longer  what  it  had  been  ;  and  the  Catholic  Church 
had  spread  in  the  land.  But  in  Uncle  Ben's  quiet 
household,  and  in  her  own  feeling,  the  changes 
had  been  but  slight  and  subtle.  Pity,  perhaps, 
had  insensibly  taken  the  place  of  hatred.  But 
those  old  words  "priest"  and  "mass"  still  rung 
in  her  ears  as  symbols  of  all  that  man  had  devised 
to  corrupt  and  deface  the  purity  of  Christ. 

lOO 


And  of  what  that  purity  might  be,  she  had 
such  tender,  such  positive  traditions  !  Her  moth- 
er had  been  a  Christian  mystic — a  "  sweet  wom- 
an," meek  as  a  dove  in  household  life,  yet  capa- 
ble of  the  fiercest  ardors  as  a  preacher  and  mis- 
sionary, gathering  rough  laborers  into  barns  and 
by  the  wayside,  and  dying  before  her  time,  worn 
out  by  the  imperious  energies  of  religion.  Lucy 
had  always  before  her  the  eyes  that  seemed  to 
be  shining  through  a  mist,  the  large  tremulous 
mouth,  the  gently  furrowed  brow.  Those  strange 
forces — "grace" — and  "the  spirit" — had  been 
the  realities,  the  deciding  powers  of  her  child- 
hood,  whether  in  what  concerned  the  great  emo- 
tions of  faith,  or  the  most  trivial  incidents  of  or 
dinary  life — writing  a  letter — inviting  a  guest — 
taking  a  journey.  The  soul  bare  before  God, 
depending  on  no  fleshly  aid,  distracted  by  no  out- 
ward rite;  sternly  defending  its  own  freedom  as 
a  divine  trust: — she  had  been  reared  on  these 
main  thoughts  of  Puritanism,  and  they  were  still 
through  all  insensible  transformation,  the  guid- 
ing forces  of  her  own  being. 

Already,  in  this  Catholic  country,  she  had  been 
jarred  and  repelled  on  all  sides.  Yet  she  found 
herself  living  with  two  people  for  whom  Catholi- 
cism was  not  indeed  a  personal  faith — she  could 
not  think  of  that  side  of  it  without  indignation 
— but  a  thing  to  be  passionately  admired  and 
praised,  like  art,  or  music,  or  scenery.  You 
might  believe  nothing,  and  yet  write  pages  and 
pages  in  glorification  of  the  Pope  and  the  Mass, 

lOI 


and  in  contempt  of  everything  else  ! — in  excuse 
too  of  every  kind  of  tyranny  so  long  as  it  served 
the  Papacy  and  "  the  Church." 

She  leaned  out  to  the  sunset,  remembering  sen- 
tence after  sentence  from  the  talk  on  the  terrace 
— ^hating  or  combating  them  all. 

Yet  all  the  time  a  new  excitement  invaded  her. 
For  the  man  who  had  spoken  thus  was,  in  a 
sense,  not  a  mere  stranger  to  her.  Somewhere 
in  his  being  must .  be  the  capacity  for  those 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  had  touched  her  so 
deeply  in  his  book — for  that  magical  insight  and 
sweetness — 

Ah  ! — perhaps  she  had  not  understood  his  book 
— no  more  than  she  understood  him  now.  The 
sense  of  her  own  ignorance  oppressed  her — and 
of  all  that  might  be  said,  with  regard  apparently 
to  anything  whatever.  Was  there  nothing  quite 
true — quite  certain — in  the  world  ? 

So  the  girl's  intense  and  simple  nature  entered 
like  all  its  fellows,  upon  the  old  inevitable  strug- 
gle. As  she  stood  there,  with  locked  hands  and 
flushed  cheeks,  conscious  through  every  vein  of 
the  inrush  and  shock  of  new  perceptions,  new 
comparisons,  she  was  like  a  ship  that  leaves  the 
harbor  for  the  open,  and  feels  for  the  first  time 
on  all  her  timbers  the  strain  of  the  unplumbed 
sea. 

And  of  this  invasion,  this  excitement,  the 
mind,  in  haunting  debate  and  antagonism,  made 
for  itself  one  image,  one  symbol — the  face  of 
Edward  Manisty. 

I02 


CHAPTER    V 

WHILE  he  was  thus — unknowing — the 
cause  of  so  many  new  attractions  and 
repulsions  in  his  guest's  mind,  Manisty, 
after  the  first  shock  of  annoyance  produced  by 
her  arrival  was  over,  hardly  remembered  her  ex- 
istence. He  was  incessantly  occupied  by  the 
completion  of  his  book,  working  late  and  early, 
sometimes  in  high  and  even  extravagant  spirits, 
but,  on  the  whole,  more  commonly  depressed  and 
discontented 

Eleanor  Burgoyne  worked  with  him  or  for  him 
many  hours  in  each  day.  Her  thin  pallor  be- 
came more  pronounced.  She  ate  little,  and  Miss 
Manisty  believed  that  she  slept  less.  The  elder 
lady  indeed  began  to  fidget  and  protest,  to  re- 
monstrate now  and  then  with  Manisty  himself, 
even  to  threaten  a  letter  to  "the  General."  Elea- 
nor's smiling  obstinacy,  however,  carried  all  be- 
fore It.  And  Manisty,  in  spite  of  a  few  startled 
looks  and  perfunctory  dissuasions,  whenever  his 
aunt  attacked  him,  soon  slipped  back  into  his 
normal  ways  of  depending  on  his  cousin,  and  not 
being  able  to  work  without  her.  Lucy  Foster 
103 


thought  him  selfish  and  inconsiderate.  It  gave 
her  one  more  cause  of  quarrel  with  him. 

For  she  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  were  slowly  but 
surely  making  friends.  The  clearer  it  became 
that  Manisty  took  no  notice  of  Miss  Foster,  and 
refused  to  be  held  in  any  way  responsible  for  her 
entertainment,  the  more  anxious,  it  seemed,  did 
Eleanor  show  herself  to  make  life  pleasant  for 
the  American  girl.  Her  manner,  which  had  al- 
ways been  kind,  became  more  natural  and  gay. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  settled  some  question 
with  herself,  and  settled  it  entirely  to  Lucy  Fos- 
ter's advantage. 

Not  much  indeed  could  be  done  for  the  stran*^ 
ger  while  the  stress  of  Manisty's  work  lasted. 
Aunt  Pattie  braced  herself  once  or  twice,  got  out 
the  guide-books  and  took  her  visitor  into  Rome 
to  see  the  sights.  But  the  little  lady  was  so 
frankly  worn  out  by  these  expeditions,  that 
Lucy,  full  of  compunctions,  could  only  beg  to  be 
left  to  herself  in  future.  Were  not  the  garden 
and  the  lake,  the  wood-paths  to  Rocca  di  Papa, 
and  the  roads  to  Albano  good  enough  ? 

So  presently  it  came  to  her  spending  many 
hours  alone  in  the  terraced  garden  on  the  hill- 
side, with  all  the  golden  Campagna  at  her  feet. 
Her  young  fancy,  however,  soon  learned  to  look 
upon  that  garden  as  the  very  concentration  and 
symbol  of  Italy.  All  the  Italian  elements,  the 
Italian  magics  were  there.  Along  its  topmosi 
edge  ran  a  vast  broken  wall,  built  into  the  hill , 
and  hanging  from  the  brink  of  the  wall  like  a 
X04 


iong  roof,  great  ilexes  shut  out  the  day  from  the 
path  below.  Within  the  thickness  of  the  wall — 
in  days  when,  in  that  dim  Rome  upon  the  plain, 
many  still  lived  who  could  remember  the  voice 
and  the  face  of  Paul  of  Tarsus — Domitian  had 
made  niches  and  fountains ;  and  he  had  thrown 
over  the  terrace,  now  darkened  by  the  great  ilex 
boughs,  a  long  portico  roof  supported  on  capitals 
and  shafts  of  gleaming  marble.  Then  in  the 
niches  round  the  clear  fountains,  he  had  ranged 
the  fine  statues  of  a  still  admirable  art ;  every 
where  he  had  lavished  marbles,  rose  and  yellow 
and  white,  and  under  foot  he  had  spread  a  mosaic 
floor,  glistening  beneath  the  shadow-play  of  leaf 
and  water,  in  the  rich  reflected  light  from  the 
garden  and  the  Campagna  outside ;  while  at  in- 
tervals, he  had  driven  through  the  very  crest  of 
the  hill,  cool  tunnelled  passages,  down  which  one 
might  look  from  the  garden  and  see  the  blue 
lake  shining  at  their  farther  end. 

And  now  the  niches  and  the  recesses  were 
there, — the  huge  wall  too  along  the  face  of  the 
hill ;  all  broken  and  gashed  and  ruinous,  showing 
the  fine  reticulated  brick -work  that  had  been 
once  faced  with  marble  ;  alternately  supported 
and  torn  by  the  pushing  roots  of  the  ilex-trees. 
The  tunnelled  passages  too  were  there,  choked 
and  fallen  in  ;  no  flash  of  the  lake  now  beyond 
their  cool  darkness !  And  into  the  crumbling 
surface  of  the  wall,  rude  hands  had  built  frag- 
ments of  the  goddesses  and  the  Caesars  that  had 
once  reigned   there,  barbarously  mingled   with 

E  105 


warm  white  morsels  from  the  great  cornice  of 
the  portico,  acanthus  blocks  from  the  long-buried 
capitals,  or  dolphins  orphaned  of  Aphrodite. 

The  wreck  was  beautiful,  like  all  wrecks  in 
Italy  where  Nature  has  had  her  way.  For  it 
was  masked  in  the  gloom  of  the  overhanging 
trees ;  or  hidden  behind  dropping  veils  of  ivy ; 
or  lit  up  by  straggling  patches  of  broom  and 
cytisus  that  thrust  themselves  through  the  gaps 
in  the  Roman  brick- work  and  shone  golden  in  the 
dark.  At  the  foot  of  the  wall,  along  its  whole 
length,  ran  still  a  low  marble  conduit  that  held 
still  the  sweetest  liveliest  water.  Lilies  of  the 
valley  grew  beside  it,  breathing  scent  into  the 
shadowed  air ;  while  on  the  outer  or  garden  side 
of  the  path,  the  grass  was  purple  with  long- 
stalked  violets,  or  pink  with  the  sharp  heads  of 
the  cyclamen.  And  a  little  farther,  from  the 
same  grass,  there  shot  up  in  a  happy  neglect,  tall 
camellia  -  trees  ragged  and  laden,  strewing  the 
ground  red  and  white  beneath  them.  And  above 
the  camellias  again,  the  famous  stone-pines  of  the 
villa  climbed  into  the  high  air,  overlooking  the 
plain  and  the  sea,  peering  at  Rome  and  Soracte. 

So  old  it  was  ! — and  yet  so  fresh  with  spring  ! 
In  the  mornings  at  least  the  spring  was  upper- 
most. It  silenced  the  plaint  of  outraged  beauty 
which  the  place  seemed  to  be  always  making, 
under  a  flutter  of  growth  and  song.  Water  and 
flowers  and  nightingales,  the  shadow,  the  sun- 
light, and  the  heat  were  all  alike  strong  and  liv- 
ing,— Italy  untamed.  It  was  only  in  the  evenings 
io6 


that  Lucy  shunned  the  path.  For  then,  from  the 
soil  below  and  the  wall  above,  there  crept  out  the 
old  imprisoned  forces  of  sadness,  or  of  poison, 
and  her  heart  flagged  or  her  spirits  sank  as  she 
sat  or  walked  there.  Marinata  has  no  malaria ; 
but  on  old  soils,  and  as  night  approaches,  there 
is  always  something  in  the  shade  of  Italy  that 
fights  with  human  life.  The  poor  ghosts  rise 
from  the  earth — jealous  of  those  that  are  still 
walking  the  warm  ways  of  the  world. 

But  in  the  evenings,  when  the  Fountain  Walk 
drove  her  forth,  the  central  hot  zone  of  the  gar- 
den was  divine,  with  its  roses  and  lilacs,  its  birds, 
its  exquisite  grass  alive  with  shining  lizards,  jew- 
elled with  every  flower,  breathing  every  scent  ; 
and  at  its  edge  the  old  terrace  with  its  balus- 
trade, set  above  the  Campagna,  commanding  the 
plain  and  the  sea,  the  sky  and  the  sunsets. 

Evening  after  evening  Lucy  might  have  been 
found  perched  on  the  stone  coping  of  the  balus- 
trade, sometimes  trying,  through  the  warm  silent 
hours,  by  the  help  of  this  book  or  that,  to  call  up 
again  the  old  Roman  life  ;  sometimes  dreaming 
of  what  there  might  still  be — what  the- archae- 
ologists indeed. said  must  be  —  buried  beneath 
her  feet ;  of  the  marble  limbs  and  faces  pressed 
into  the  earth,  and  all  the  other  ruined  things, 
small  and  great,  mean  or  lovely,  that  lay  deep  in 
a  common  grave  below  the  rustling  olives,  and 
the  still  leafless  vineyards  ;  and  sometimes  the 
mere  passive  companion  of  the  breeze  and  the 
sun,  conscious  only  of  the  chirping  of  the  crick- 
107 


ets,  or  the  loudness  of  the  nightingales,  or  the 
flight  of  a  hoopoe,  like  some  strange  bright  bird 
of  fairy  tale,  flashing  from  one  deep  garden 
shadow  to  another. 

Yet  the  garden  was  not  always  given  up  to  her 
and  the  birds.  Peasant  folk  coming  from  Al- 
bano  or  the  olive-grounds  between  it  and  the 
villa  would  take  a  short  cut  through  the  garden 
to  Marinata ;  dark-faced  gardeners,  in  blue  linen 
suits,  would  doff  their  peaked  hats  to  the  strange 
lady ;  or  a  score  or  two  of  young  black-frocked 
priestlings  from  a  neighboring  seminary  would 
suddenly  throng  its  paths,  playing  mild  girlish 
games,  with  infinite  clamor  and  chatter,  running 
races  as  far  and  fast  as  their  black  petticoats 
would  allow,  twisting  their  long  overcoats  and 
red  sashes  meanwhile  round  a  battered  old  nose- 
less bust  that  stood  for  Domitian  at  the  end  of  a 
long  ilex  avenue,  and  was  the  butt  for  all  the 
slings  and  arrows  of  the  day,  —  poor  helpless 
State,  blinded  and  buffeted  by  the  Church ! 

Lucy  would  hide  herself  among  the  lilacs  and 
the  arbutus  when  the  seminary  invaded  her; 
watching  through  the  leaves  the  strapping  Ital- 
ian boys  in  their  hindering  womanish  dress ; 
scorning  them  for  their  state  of  supervision  and 
dependence  ;  pitying  them  for  their  destiny  ! 

And  sometimes  Manisty,  disturbed  by  the 
noise,  would  come  out — pale  and  frowning.  But 
at  the  sight  of  the  seminarists  and  of  the  old 
priest  in  command  of  them,  his  irritable  look 
would  soften.     He  would  stand  indeed  with  his 


hands  on  his  sides,  laughing  and  chatting  with 
the  boys,  his  head  uncovered,  his  black  curls 
blown  backward  from  the  great  furrowed  brovc^ ; 
and  in  the  end  Lucy  peering  from  her  nook 
would  see  him  pacing  up  and  down  the  ileit  walk 
with  the  priest, — haranguing  and  gesticulating — 
the  old  man  in  a  pleased  wonder  looking  at  the 
Englishman  through  his  spectacles,  and  throw- 
ing in  from  time  to  time  ejaculations  of  assent, 
now  half  puzzled,  and  now  fanatically  eager. 
*'He  is  talking  the  book  !" — Lucy  would  think  to 
herself — and  her  mind  would  rise  in  revolt. 

One  day  after  parting  with  the  lads  he  came 
unexpectedly  past  her  hiding-place,  and  paused 
at  sight  of  her. 

"Do  the  boys  disturb  you?"  he  said,  glancing 
at  her  book,  and  speaking  with  the  awkward 
abruptness  which  with  him  could  in  a  moment 
take  the  place  of  ease  and  mirth. 

"  Oh  no— not  at  all." 

He  fidgeted,  stripping  leaves  from  the  arbutus- 
tree  under  which  she  sat. 

"That  old  priest  who  comes  with  them  is  a 
charming  fellow  !" 

Her  shyness  gave  way. 

"  Is  he  ? — He  looks  after  them  like  an  old  nurse. 
And  they  are  such  babies — those  great  boys!" 

His  eye  kindled. 

"  So  you  would  like  them  to  be  more  indepen- 
dent— more  brutal.  You  prefer  a  Harvard  and 
Yale  football  match — with  the  dead  arid  wounded 
left  on  the  ground?" 

109 


She  laughed,  daring  for  the  first  time  to  assert 
herself. 

"  No.  I  don't  want  blood!  But  there  is  some- 
thing between.     However — " 

She  hesitated.  He  looked  down  upon  her  half 
irritable,  half  smiling. 

"  Please  go  on." 

"  It  would  do  them  no  good,  would  it — to  be 
independent  ?" 

"  Considering  how  soon  they  must  be  slaves  for 
life?     Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

Her  frank  blue  eyes  raised  themselves  to  his. 
He  was  instantly  conscious  of  something  cool 
and  critical  in  her  attitude  towards  him.  Very 
possibly  he  had  been  conscious  of  it  for  some 
time,  which  accounted  for  his  instinctive  avoid- 
ance of  her.  In  the  crisis  of  thought  and  produc- 
tion through  which  he  was  passing  he  shrank 
from  any  touch  of  opposition  or  distrust.  He 
distrusted  himself  enough.  It  was  as  though  he 
carried  about  with  him  wounds  that  only  Eleanor's 
soft  touch  could  be  allowed  to  approach.  And 
from  the  first  evening  he  had  very  naturally 
divined  in  this  Yankee  girl,  with  her  mingled 
reserve  and  transparency,  her  sturdy  Protestant- 
isms of  all  sorts,  elements  antagonistic  to  himself. 

She  answered  his  question,  however,  by  another 
— still  referring  to  the  seminarists. 

"  Isn't  that  the  reason  why  they  take  and  train 
them  so  young — that  they  may  have  no  will  left  ?" 

"Well,  is  that  the  worst  condition  in  the  world 
^o  give  up  your  own  will  to  an  idea — a  cause?" 
Jio 


She  laughed  shyly— a  low  musical  sound  that 
suddenly  gave  him,  as  it  seemed,  a  new  impres- 
sion of  her. 

"You  call  the  old  priest  an  'idea'?" 

Both  had  the  same  vision  of  the  most  portly 
and  substantial  of  figures.  Manisty  smiled  un- 
willingly. 

"  The  old  priest  is  merely  the  symbol." 

She  shook  her  head  obstinately. 

"He  is  all  they  know  anything  about.  He 
giyes  orders,  and  they  obey.  Soon  it  will  be 
some  one  else's  turn  to  give  them  the  orders — " 

"  Till  the  time  comes  for  them  to  give  orders 
themselves  ? — Well,  what  is  there  to  object  to  in 
that?"  He  scanned  her  severely.  "What  does 
it  mean  but  that  they  are  parts  of  a  great  system, 
properly  organized,  to  a  great  end?  Show  me 
anything  better?" 

She  colored. 

"It  is  better,  isn't  it,  that — sometimes — one 
should  give  one's  self  orders  ?"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

Manisty  laughed. 

"  Liberty  to  make  a  fool  of  one's  self — in  short. 
No  doubt, — that's  the  great  modern  panacea." 
He  paused,  staring  at  her  without  being  con- 
scious of  it,  with  his  absent  brilliant  eyes.  Then 
he  broke  out — "Well!  so  you  despise  my  little 
priests !  Did  you  ever  think  of  inquiring,  how- 
ever, which  wears  best — their  notion  of  human 
life,  which  after  all  has  weathered  1900  years, 
and  is  as  strong  and  prevailing  as  it  ever  was — 
III 


or  the  sort  of  notion  that  their  enemies  here  go 
to  work  upon?  Look  into  the  history  of  this 
Abyssinian  war— everybody  free  to  make  fools 
of  themselves,  in  Rome  or  Africa — and  doing  it 
magnificently  !  Private  judgment — private  aims 
everywhere — from  Crispi  to  the  smallest  lieu- 
tenant. Result — universal  wreck  and  muddle — 
thousands  of  lives  thrown  away — a  nation  brought 
to  shame.  Then  look  about  you  at  what's  going 
on — here — this  week — on  these  hills.  It's  Holy 
Week.  They're  all  fasting — they're  all  going  to 
mass — the  people  working  in  the  fields,  our  ser- 
vants, the  bright  little  priest.  To-morrow's  Holy 
Thursday.  From  now  till  Sunday,  nobody  here 
will  eat  anything  but  a  little  bread  and  a  few 
olives.  The  bells  will  cease  to-morrow.  If  a 
single  church-bell  rang  in  Rome — over  this  plain, 
and  these  mountains — through  the  whole  of  Italy 
— from  mass  to-morrow  till  mass  on  Saturday — a 
whole  nation  would  feel  pain  and  outrage.  Then 
on  Saturday — marvellous  symbol !— listen  for  the 
bells.  You  will  hear  them  all  loosed  together,  as 
soon  as  the  Sanctus  begins — all  over  Italy.  And 
on  Sunday — watch  the  churches.  If  it  isn't 
Matthew  Arnold's  *  One  common  wave  of  thought 
and  joy — Lifting  mankind  amain,' — what  is  it? 
To  me,  it's  what  keeps  the  human  machine  run- 
ning. Make  the  comparison  ! — it  will  repay  you. 
My  little  muffs  of  priests  with  their  silly  obedi- 
ence won't  come  so  badly  out  of  it." 

Unconsciously  he  had  taken  a  seat  beside  her ; 
and  was  looking  at  her  with  a  sharp  imperious 

112 


air.  She  dimly  understood  that  he  was  not  talk- 
ing to  her  but  to  a  much  larger  audience,  that  he 
was  still  in  fact  in  the  grip  of  "the  book."  But 
that  he  should  have  anyway  addressed  so  many 
consecutive  sentences  to  her  excited  her  after 
these  many  days  of  absolute  neglect  and  indif- 
ference on  his  part ;  she  felt  a  certain  tremor 
of  pulse.  Instead,  however,  of  diminishing  self- 
command,  it  bestowed  it. 

"Well,  if  that's  the  only  way  of  running  the 
machine — the  Catholic  way  I  mean," — her  words 
came  out  a  little  hurried  and  breathless  —  "I 
don't  see  how  we  exist." 

"You?    America?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Do  you  exist  ? — in  any  sense  that  matters  ?'* 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke ;  but  his  tone  provoked 
her.  She  threw  up  her  head  a  little,  suddenly 
grave. 

"  Of  course  we  know  that  you  dislike  us." 

He  showed  a  certain  embarrassment. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Oh  ! — we  read  what  you  said  of  us." 

"  I  was  badly  reported,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  No," — she  insisted.  "  But  you  were  mistaken 
in  a  great  many  things — very,  very  much  mis- 
taken.    You  judged  much  too  quickly." 

He  rose,  a  covert  amusement  playing  round 
his  lips.  It  was  the  indulgence  of  the  politician 
and  man  of  affairs  towards  the  little  backwoods 
girl  who  was  setting  him  to  rights. 

"  We  must  have  it  out,"  he  said.  "  I  see  I  shall 
113 


have  to  defend   myself.     But   now  I   fear   Mrs 
Burgoyne  will  be  waiting  for  me." 

And  lifting  his  hat  with  the  somewhat  stately 
and  excessive  manner,  which  he  could  always 
substitute  at  the  shortest  notice  for  brusquerie  or 
inattention,  he  went  his  way. 

Lucy  Foster  was  left  with  a  red  cheek.  She 
watched  him  till  he  had  passed  into  the  shadow 
of  the  avenue  leading  to  the  house ;  then  with  an 
impetuous  movement  she  took  up  a  book  which 
had  been  lying  beside  her  on  the  bench,  and  began 
to  read  it  with  a  peculiar  ardor — almost  passion. 
It  was  the  life  of  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Gari- 
baldian  movement  of  1 860-61. 

For  of  late  she  had  been  surrounding  herself— 
by  the  help  of  a  library  in  Rome  to  which  the 
Manistys  had  access  —  with  the  books  of  the 
Italian  Risorgimento^  that  great  movement,  that 
heroic  making  of  a  nation,  in  which  our  fathers 
felt  so  passionate  an  interest,  which  has  grown 
so  dim  and  far  away  now,  not  only  in  the  mind 
of  a  younger  England,  but  even  in  that  of  a 
younger  Italy. 

But  to  Lucy — reading  the  story  with  the  plain 
of  Rome,  and  St.  Peter's  in  sight,  her  wits  quick- 
ened by  the  perpetual  challenge  of  Manisty's  talk 
with  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  or  any  chance  visitor, — 
Cavour,  Garibaldi,  Mazzini ;  all  the  striking  fig- 
ures and  all  the  main  stages  in  the  great  epic ; 
the  blind,  mad,  hopeless  outbreaks  of  '48 ;  the 
hangings  and  shootings  and  bottomless  despairs 
of  *49 ;  the  sullen  calm  of  those  waiting  years 
114 


from  *49  to  '58 ;  the  ecstasy  of  Magenta  and  Sol 
ferino,  and  the  fierce  disappointment  of  Villa- 
franca;  the  wild  golden  days  of  Sicily  in  i860; 
the  plucking  of  Venice  like  a  ripe  fruit  in  *66; 
of  Rome,  in  1870;  all  the  deliriums  of  freedom, 
vengeance,  union  —  these  immortal  names  and 
passions  and  actions,  were  thrilling  through  the 
girl's  fresh  poetic  sense,  and  capturing  all  her 
sympathies.  Had  Italy  indeed  been  *'  made  too 
quick"?  Was  all  the  vast  struggle,  and  these 
martyred  lives  for  nothing  —  all  to  end  like  a 
choked  river  in  death  and  corruption?  Well,  if 
so,  whose  fault  was  it,  but  the  priests'? — of  that 
black,  intriguing,  traitorous  Italy,  headed  by  the 
Papacy,  which  except  for  one  brief  moment  in  the 
forties,  had  upheld  every  tyranny,  and  drenched 
every  liberty  in  blood,  had  been  the  supporter  of 
the  Austrian  and  the  Bourbon,  and  was  now  again 
tearing  to  pieces  the  Italy  that  so  many  brave 
men  had  died  to  make? 

The  priests  ! — the  Church  ! — Why  ! — she  won- 
dered, as  she  read  the  story  of  Charles  Albert, 
and  Metternich  and  the  Naples  Bourbons,  that 
Italy  still  dared  to  let  the  ignorant,  persecuting 
brood  live  and  thrive  in  her  midst  at  all !  Espe- 
cially was  it  a  marvel  to  her  that  any  Jesuit  might 
still  walk  Italian  streets,  that  a  nation  could  ever 
forgive  or  forget  such  crimes  against  her  inmost 
life  as  had  been  the  crimes  of  the  Jesuits.  She 
would  stand  at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  her  hands 
behind  her  clasping  her  book,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  distant  dome  amid  the  stone-pines.     Her 


book  opened  with  the  experiences  of  a  Neapolitan 
boy  at  school  in  Naples  during  the  priest-ridden 
years  of  the  twenties,  when  Austrian  bayonets^ 
after  the  rising  of  '21,  had  replaced  Bourbons  and 
Jesuits  in  power,  and  crushed  the  life  out  of  the 
young  striving  liberty  of  '21,  as  a  cruel  boy  may 
crush  and  strangle  a  fledgling  bird.  "  What  did 
we  learn,"  cried  the  author  of  the  memoir-*"  from 
that  monkish  education  which  dwarfed  both  our 
mind  and  body?  How  many  have  I  seen  in  later 
life  groaning  over  their  own  ignorance,  and  pour- 
ing maledictions  on  the  seminary  or  the  college, 
where  they  had  wasted  so  many  years  and  had 
learned  nothing!" 

"  That  monkish  education  which  dwarfed  both 
our  mind  and  oody  " — 

Lucy  would  repeat  the  words  to  herself — throw- 
ing them  out  as  a  challenge  to  that  great  dome 
hovering  amid  the  sunny  haze.  That  old  man 
there,  among  his  Cardinals — she  thougth  of  him 
with  a  young  horror  and  revolt ;  yet  not  without 
a  certain  tremor  of  the  imagination.  Well ! — in  a 
few  days — Sunday  week — she  was  to  see  him,  and 
judge  for  herself. 

Meanwhile  visitors  were  almost  shut  out. 
The  villa  sank  into  a  convent -like  quiet;  for 
in  a  week,  ten  days,  the  book  was  perhaps  to  be 
finished.  Miss  Manisty,  as  the  crisis  approached, 
kept  a  vigilant  eye  on  Mrs.  Burgoyne.  She  was 
in  constant  dread  of  a  delicate  woman's  collapse ; 
and  after  the  sittings  in  the  library  had  lasted  a 
n6 


certain  time  she  had  now  the  courage  to  break  in 
upon  them,  and  drive  Manisty's  Egeria  out  of  her 
cave  to  rest  and  to  the  garden. 

So  Lucy,  as  the  shadows  lengthened  in  the 
garden,  would  hear  the  sound  of  a  light  though 
languid  step,  and  would  look  up  to  see  a  delicate 
white  face  smiling  down  upon  her. 

"  Oh !  how  tired  you  must  be !"  she  would  say, 
springing  up.  "  Let  me  make  a  place  for  you 
here  under  the  trees." 

"  No,  no.  Let  us  move  about.  I  am  tired  of 
sitting." 

And  they  would  pace  up  and  down  the  terrace 

and  the  olive-garden  beyond,  while  Mrs.  Burgoyne 

leaned  upon  Lucy's  arm,  chatting  and  laughing 

■  with  an  evident  relief  from  tension  which  only 

betrayed  the  mental  and  physical  fatigue  behind. 

Lucy  wondered  to  see  how  exquisite,  how 
dainty,  she  would  emerge  from  these  wrestles 
with  hard  work.  Her  fresh  white  or  pale  dresses, 
the  few  jewels  half-hidden  at  her  wrists  or  throat, 
the  curled  or  piled  masses  of  the  fair  hair,  were 
never  less  than  perfection,  it  seemed  to  Lucy ; 
she  was  never  more  the  woman  of  fashion  and 
the  great  world  than  when  she  came  out  from  a 
morning's  toil  that  would  have  left  its  disturbing 
mark  on  a  strong  man,  her  eyes  shining  under 
the  stress  and  ardor  of  those  "  ideas,"  as  to  which 
it  was  good  to  talk  with  her. 

But   how   eagerly   she   would   throw   off   that 
stress,  and  turn  to  wooing  and  winning   Lucy 
Foster  !     All  hanging  back   in  the  matter  was 
117 


gone.  Certain  vague  thoughts  and  terrors  were 
laid  to  sleep,  and  she  must  needs  allow  herself 
the  luxury  of  charming  the  quiet  girl,  like  all 
the  rest  —  the  dogs,  the  servants  or  the  vil- 
lage children.  There  was  a  perpetual  hun- 
ger for  love  in  Eleanor's  nature  which  express- 
ed itself  in  a  thousand  small  and  piteous  ways. 
She  could  never  help  throwing  out  tendrils, 
and  it  was  rarely  that  she  ventured  them  in 
vain. 

In  the  case  of  Lucy  Foster,  however,  her  fine 
tact  soon  discovered  that  caresses  were  best  left 
alone.  They  were  natural  to  herself,  and  once  or 
twice  as  the  April  days  went  by,  she  Ventured  to 
kiss  the  girl's  fresh  cheek,  or  to  slip  an  arm  round 
her  waist.  But  Lucy  took  it  awkwardly.  When' 
she  was  kissed  she  flushed,  and  stood  passive  ; 
and  all  her  personal  ways  were  a  little  stiff  and 
austere.  After  one  of  these  demonstrations  in- 
deed Mrs.  Burgoyne  generally  found  herself  repaid 
in  some  other  form,  by  some  small  thoughtfulness 
on  Lucy's  part — the  placing  of  a  stool,  the  fetch^ 
ing  of  a  cloak — or  merely  perhaps  by  a  new  soft- 
ness in  the  girl's  open  look.  And  Eleanor  never 
once  thought  of  resenting  her  lack  of  response. 
There  was  even  a  kind  of  charm  in  it.  The  pre- 
vailing American  type  in  Rome  that  winter  had 
been  a  demonstrative  type. 

Lucy's  manner  in  comparison  was  like  a  cool 
and   bracing  air.     "And  when  she  does  kiss!" 
Eleanor  would  say  to  herself — "it  will  be  with 
all  her  heart.     One  can  see  that." 
ii8 


Meanwhile  Mrs.  Burgoyne  took  occasional  note 
of  the  Mazzinian  literature  that  lay  about.  She 
would  turn  the  books  over  and  read  their  titles, 
her  eyes  sparkling  with  a  little  gentle  mischief, 
as  she  divined  the  girl's  disapproval  of  her  host 
and  his  views.  But  she  never  argued  with  Lucy. 
She  was  too  tired  of  the  subject,  too  eager  to 
seek  relief  in  talking  of  the  birds  and  the  view, 
of  people  and  chiffons. 

Too  happy  perhaps — also.  She  walked  on  air 
in  these  days  before  Easter.  The  book  was 
prospering  ;  Manisty  was  more  content  ;  and  as 
agreeable  in  all  daily  ways  and  offices  as  only 
the  hope  of  good  fortune  can  make  a  man. 
"  The  Priest  of  Nemi "  —  indeed,  with  several 
other  prose  poems  of  the  same  kind,  had  been 
cast  out  of  the  text,  which  now  presented  one 
firm  and  vigorous  whole  of  social  and  politi- 
cal discussion.  But  the  "  Nemi  piece  "  was  to 
be  specially  bound  for  Eleanor,  together  with 
some  drawings  that  she  had  made  of  the  lake 
and  the  temple  site  earlier  in  the  sprihg.  And 
on  the  day  the  book  was  finished — somewhere 
within  the  next  fortnight  —  there  was  to  be  a 
festal  journey  to  Nemi  —  divine  and  blessed 
place  ' 

So  she  felt  no  fatigue,  and  was  always  ready  to 
chatter  to  Lucy  of  the  most  womanish  things. 
Especially,  as  the  girl's  beauty  grew  upon  her, 
was  she  anxious  to  carry  out  those  plans  of  trans- 
forming her  dress  and  hair, — her  gowns  and  hats 
and  shoes — the  primness  of  her  brown  braids, 
119 


which  she  and  Miss  Manisty  had  confided  to  each 
other. 

But  Lucy  was  shy — would  not  be  drawn  that 
way.  There  were  fewer  visitors  at  the  villa  than 
she  had  expected.  For  this  quiet  life  in  the  gar- 
den, and  on  the  country  roads,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  her  dresses  did  very  well.  The  sense  of  dis- 
comfort excited  by  the  elegance  of  her  Florentine 
acquaintance  died  away.  And  she  would  have 
thought  it  wrong  and  extravagant  to  spend  un- 
necessary money. 

So  she  had  quietly  ceased  to  think  about  her 
dress ;  and  the  blue  and  white  check,  to  Elea- 
nor's torment,  had  frequently  to  be  borne  with. 

Even  the  promised  invitation  to  the  Embassy 
had  not  arrived.  It  was  said  that  the  ambas- 
sador's daughter  had  gone  to  Florence.  Only 
Lucy  wished  she  had  not  written  that  letter  to 
Uncle  Ben  from  Florence  : — that  rather  troub- 
led and  penitent  letter  on  the  subject  of  dress. 
He  might  misunderstand — might  do  something 
foolish. 

And  apparently  Uncle  Ben  did  do  something 
foolish.  For  a  certain  letter  arrived  from  Boston 
on  the  day  after  the  seminarists'  invasion  of  the 
garden.  Lucy  after  an  hour's  qualms  and  hesi- 
tations, must  needs  reluctantly  confide  the  con- 
tents of  it  to  Miss  Manisty.  And  that  lady  with 
smiles  and  evident  pleasure  called  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
— and  Eleanor  called  her  maid — and  the  ball  be- 
gan to  roll 

1 20 


On  Saturday  morning  early,  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
room  indeed  was  in  a  bustle  —  delightful  to  all 
but  Lucy.  Manisty  was  in  Rome  for  the  day, 
and  Eleanor  had  holiday.  She  had  never  looked 
more  frail — a  rose-leaf  pink  in  her  cheek — nor 
more  at  ease.  For  she  was  at  least  as  good  to 
consult  about  a  skirt  as  an  idea. 

"  Marie !" — she  said,  giving  her  own  maid  a  little 
peremptory  push — "just  run  and  fetch  Benson — 
there's  an  angel.  We  must  have  all  the  brains 
possible.  If  we  don't  get  the  bodice  right,  it 
won't  suit  Miss  Foster  a  bit." 

Marie  went  in  all  haste.  Meanwhile  in  front 
of  a  large  glass  stood  a  rather  red  and  troubled 
Lucy  arrayed  in  a  Paris  gown  belonging  to  Mrs. 
Burgoyne.  Eleanor  had  played  her  with  much 
tact,  and  now  had  her  in  her  power. 

"  It  is  the  crisis,  my  dear,"  Miss  Manisty  had 
said  in  Eleanor's  ear,  as  they  rose  from  break- 
fast, with  a  twinkle  of  her  small  eyes.  "  The 
question  is  ;  can  we,  or  can  we  not,  turn  her  into 
a  beauty  ?     You  can  !'* 

Eleanor  at  any  rate  was  doing  her  best.  She 
had  brought  out  her  newest  gowns  and  Lucy  was 
submissively  putting  them  on  one  after  the  other. 
Eleanor  was  in  pursuit  first  of  all  of  some  gen- 
eral conceptions.  What  was  the  girl's  true  style? 
— what  were  the  possibilities  ? 

*'  When  I  have  got  my  lines  and  main  ideas  in 
my  head,"  she  said  pensively,  "  then  we  will  call 
in  the  maids.  Of  course  you  might  have  the 
things  made    in   Rome.     But  as   we   have   the 

121 


models — and  these  two  maids  have  nothing  to 
do — why  not  give  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  look- 
ing after  it  ?" 

Pleasure  !     Lucy  Foster  opened  her  eyes. 

Still,  here  was  this  absurd,  this  most  extrava- 
gant check  from  Uncle  Ben,  and  these  peremp- 
tory commands  to  get  herself  everything — ev- 
erything—  that  other  girls  had.  Why,  it  was 
demanded  of  her,  had  she  been  economical  and 
scrupulous  before  starting?  Folly  and  disobe- 
dience !  He  had  been  told  of  her  silly  hesita- 
tions, her  detestable  frugalities — he  had  ferreted 
it  all  out.  And  now  she  was  at  a  disadvantage 
— was  she  ?  Let  her  provide  herself  at  once,  or 
old  as  he  was,  he  would  take  train  and  steamer 
and  come  and  see  to  it ! 

She  was  not  submissive  in  general — far  from 
it.  But  the  reading  of  Uncle  Ben's  letter  had 
left  her  very  meek  in  spirit  and  rather  inclined 
to  cry. 

Had  Uncle  Ben  really  cansidered  whether  it 
was  right  to  spend  so  much  money  on  one's  self, 
to  think  so  much  about  it?  Their  life  together 
had  been  so  simple,  the  question  had  hardly 
emerged.  Of  course  it  was  right  to  be  neat  and 
fresh,  and  to  please  his  taste  in  what  she  wore. 
But— 

The  net  result  of  all  this  internal  debate,  how- 
ever, was  to  give  a  peculiar  charm,  like  the  charm 
of  rippled  and  sensitive  water,  to  features  that 
were  generally  too  still  and  grave.  She  stood 
silently  before  the  long  glass  while  Mrs.  Bur- 


goytie  and  the  maids  talked  and  pinned.  She 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  room  and  back,  as  she 
was  bid  ;  she  tried  to  express  a  preference,  when 
she  was  asked  for  one;  and  as  she  was  arrayed 
in  one  delicious  gown  after  another,  she  became 
more  and  more  alive  to  the  beauty  of  the  soft 
stuffs,  the  invention  and  caprice  with  which  they 
were  combined,  the  daintiness  of  their  pinks  and 
blues,  their  grays  and  creams,  their  lilacs  and 
ivories.  At  last  Mrs.  Burgoyne  happened  upon 
a  dress  of  white  crape,  opening  upon  a  vest  of 
pale  green,  with  thin  edges  of  black  here  and 
there,  disposed  with  the  tact,  the  feeling  of  the 
artist ;  and  when  Lucy's  tall  form  had  been 
draped  in  this  garment,  her  three  attendants  fell 
back  with  one  simultaneous  cry  : 

"  Oh  my  dear  !"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  drawing  a 
long  breath. — "  Now  you  see,  Marie — I  told  you  ! 
— that's  the  cut.  And  just  look  how  simple  that 
is,  and  how  it  falls  !  That's  the  green.  Yes, 
when  Mathilde  is  as  good  as  that  she's  divine. — 
Now  all  you've  got  to  do  is  just  to  copy  that. 
And  the  materials  are  just  nothing — you'll  get 
them  in  the  Corso  in  half  an  hour." 

"  May  I  take  it  off  ?"  said  Lucy. 

"  Well  yes,  you  may  " — said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  re- 
luctantly— "  but  it's  a  great  pity.  Well  now,  for 
the  coat  and  skirt," — she  checked  them  off  on  her 
slim  fingers — "  for  the  afternoon  gown,  and  one 
evening  dress,  I  think  I  see  my  way — " 

"  Enough  for  one  morning  isn't  it?"  said  Lucy 
half'laughing,  half  imploring. 
.    123 


"  Yes," — said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  absently,  her  mind 
already  full  of  further  developments. 

The  gowns  were  carried  away,  and  Aunt  Pat- 
tie's  maid  departed.  Then  as  Lucy  in  her  white 
cotton  wrapper  was  retiring  to  her  own  room, 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"You  remember,"  —  she  said  appealingly, — 
"  how  rude  I  was  that  evening  you  came — how  I 
just  altered  your  hair  ?  You  don't  know  how  I 
long  to  do  it  properly  !  You  know  I  shall  have 
a  little  trouble  with  these  dresses— trouble  I  like 
—but  still  I  shall  pretend  it's  trouble,  that  you 
may  pay  me  for  it.  Pay  me  by  letting  me  ex- 
periment !  I  just  long  to  take  all  your  hair  down, 
and  do  it  as  it  ought  to  be  done.  And  you  don't 
know  how  clever  I  am.     Let  me  !" 

And  already,  before  the  shamefaced  girl  could 
reply,  she  was  gently  pushed  into  the  chair  be- 
fore Mrs.  Burgoyne's  dressing-table,  and  a  pair  of 
skilled  hands  went  to  work. 

"  I  can't  say  you  look  as  though  you  enjoyed 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  by  the  time  she  had 
covered  the  girl's  shoulders  with  the  long  silky 
veil  which  she  had  released  from  the  stiff  plaits 
confining  it.  **  Do  you  think  it's  wrong  to 
do  your  hair  prettily?"  Lucy  laughed  un- 
easily. 

"  I  was  never  brought  up  to  think  much  about 
it.     My  mother  had  very  strict  views." 

"Ah!" — said  Eleanor,with  a  discreet  intonation. 
"But  you  see,  at  Rome  it  is  really  so  much  better 
for  the  character  to  do  as  Rome  does.  To  be  out 
124 


of  the  way  makes  one  self-conscious.  Your  moth- 
er didn't  foresee  that." 

Silence, — while  the  swift  white  fingers  plaited 
and  tied  and  laid  foundations. 

"It  waves  charmingly  already"  —  murmured 
the  artist — "but  it  must  be  just  a  little  more 
onduU  in  the  right  places — just  a  touch— here  and 
there.  Quick,  Marie  ! — bring  me  the  stove— and 
the  tongs— and  two  or  three  of  those  finest  hair- 
pins." 

The  maid  flew,  infected  by  the  ardor  of  her 
mistress,  and  between  them  they  worked  to  such 
purpose  that  when  at  last  they  released  their 
victim,  they  had  turned  the  dark  head  into  that 
of  a  stately  and  fashionable  beauty.  The  splen- 
did hair  was  raised  high  in  small  silky  ripples 
above  the  white  brow.  The  little  lovelocks  on 
the  temples  had  been  delicately  arranged  so  as 
to  complete  the  fine  oval  of  the  face,  and  at  the 
back  the  black  masses  drawn  lightly  upward 
from  the  neck,  and  held  in  place  there  by  a  pearl 
comb  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne's,  had  been  piled  and 
twisted  into  a  crown  that  would  have  made  Ar- 
temis herself  more  queenly. 

"  Am  I  really  to  keep  it  like  this  ?"  cried  Lucy, 
looking  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

"But  of  course  you  are!"  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
instinctively  held  the  girl's  arms,  lest  any  vio- 
lence should  be  offered  to  her  handiwork — "  And 
you  must  put  on  your  old  white  frock — not  the 
check  —  the  nice  soft  one  that's  been  washed, 
with  the  pink  sash  —  Goodness,  how  the  time 


goes  !     Marie,  run  and  tell  Miss  Manisty  not  to 
wait  for  me — I'll  follow  her  to  the  village." 

The  maid  went.  Lucy  looked  down  upon  her 
tyrant — 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me  " — she  said  with  a 
lip  that  trembled  slightly.  Her  blue  eyes  under 
the  black  brows  showed  a  feeling  that  she  did 
not  know  how  to  express.  The  subdued  re- 
sponsiveness, indeed,  of  Lucy's  face  was  like  that 
of  Wordsworth's  Highland  girl  struggling  with 
English.  You  felt  her  "beating  up  against  the 
wind," — in  the  current,  yet  resisting  it.  Or  to 
take  another  comparison,  her  nature  seemed  to 
be  at  once  stiff  and  rich — like  some  heavy  church 
stuff,  shot  with  gold. 

"  Oh  !  these  things  are  my  snare,"  said  Elea- 
nor, laughing — "If  I  have  any  gift,  it  is  for 
chiffons." 

"Any  gift !"  said  Lucy  wondering — "when  you 
do  so  much  for  Mr.  Manisty  ?" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Ah  !  well — he  wanted  a  secretary — and  I  hap- 
pened to  get  the  place,"  she  said,  in  a  more  con- 
strained voice. 

"  Miss  Manisty  told  me  how  you  helped  him  in 
the  winter.  And  she  and  Mr.  Brooklyn — have — 
told  me — other  things— "said  Lucy.  She  paused, 
coloring  deeply.  But  her  eyes  travelled  timidly 
to  the  photographs  on  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  table. 

Eleanor  understood. 

"  Ah  !— they   told  you  that,  did  they  ?"— The 
speaker  turned  a  little  white.     "  And  you  won* 
126 


der  ? — don't  you  ? — that  I  can  go  on  talking  about 
frocks,  and  new  ways  of  doing  one's  hair  ?" 

She  moved  away  from  Lucy,  a  touch  of  cold 
defensive  dignity  effacing  all  her  pliant  sweet- 
ness. 

Lucy  followed  and  caught  her  hand. 

"  Oh  no  !  no  !" — she  said — "  it  is  only  so  brave 
and  good  of  you — to  be  able  still — to  take  an  in- 
terest—" 

"  Do  I  take  it  ?"  said  Eleanor,  scornfully,  rais- 
ing her  other  hand  and  letting  it  fall. 

Lucy  was  silenced.  After  a  moment  Eleanor 
looked  round,  calmly  took  the  photograph  of 
the  child  from  the  table,  and  held  it  towards 
Lucy. 

"  He  was  just  two — his  birthday  was  four  days 
before  this  was  taken.  It's  the  picture  I  love 
best,  because  I  last  saw  him  like  that  —  in  his 
night-gown.  I  was  very  ill  that  night  —  they 
wouldn't  let  me  stay  with  my  husband— but  after 
I  left  him,  I  came  and  rocked  the  baby  and  tucked 
him  up — and  leaned  my  face  against  his.  He  was 
so  warm  and  sweet  always  in  his  sleep.  The 
touch  of  him — and  the  scent  of  him — his  dear 
breath — and  his  curls — and  the  moist  little  hands 
— sometimes  they  used  to  intoxicate  me — to  give 
me  life — like  wine.  They  did  me  such  good — 
that  night." 

Her  voice  did  not  tremble.  Tears  softly. found 
their  way  down  Lucy's  face.  And  suddenly  she 
stooped,  and  put  her  lips,  tenderly,  clingingly,  to 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  hand. 

127 


Eleanor  smiled.  Then  she  herself  bent  forward 
and  lightly  kissed  the  girl's  cheek. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  not  worthy  either  to  have  had  him 
— or  lost  him,"  she  said  bitterly.  There  was  a 
little  pause,  which  Eleanor  broke.  "  Now  really 
we  must  go  to  Aunt  Pattie — mustn't  we  ?'* 


CHAPTER    VI 

"  A  H !  here  you  are !  Don't  kill  yourselves. 
/\  Plenty  of  time — for  us  !  Listen — there's 
1  \^  the  bell — eight  o'clock — now  they  open 
the  doors.  Goodness  ! — Look  at  the  rush — and 
those  little  Italian  chaps  tackling  those  strapping 
priests.     Go  it,  ye  cripples!" 

Lucy  tamed  her  run  to  a  quick  walk,  and  Mr. 
Reggie  took  care  of  her,  while  Manisty  disap- 
peared ahead  with  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  and  Aunt 
Pattie  fell  to  the  share  of  a  certain  Mr.  Van- 
brugh  Neal,  an  elderly  man  tall  and  slim,  and  of 
a  singular  elegance  of  bearing,  who  had  joined 
them  at  the  Piazza,  and  seemed  to  be  an  old 
friend  of  Mr.  Manisty's. 

Lucy  looked  round  her  in  bewilderment.  Be- 
fore the  first  stroke  of  the  bell  the  Piazza  of  St. 
Peter's  had  been  thickly  covered  with  freely 
moving  groups,  all  advancing  in  order  upon  the 
steps  of  the  church.  But  as  the  bell  began  to 
speak,  there  was  a  sudden  charge  mostly  of 
young  priests  and  seminarists — black  skirts  fly- 
ing, black  legs  leaping — across  the  open  space 
and  up  the  steps. 

139 


"  Reminds  me  of  nothing  so  much  " — said  Reg- 
gie laughing  back  over  his  shoulder  at  a  friend 
behind^"  as  the  charge  of  the  Harrow  boys  at 
Lord's  last  year — when  they  stormed  the  pavilion 
— did  you  see  iti* — and  that  little  Harrow  chap 
saved  the  draw?  I  say! — they've  broken  the 
line  ! — and  there'll  be  a  bad  squash  somewhere." 

And  indeed  the  attacking  priests  had  for  a  mo 
ment  borne  down  the  Italian  soldiers  who  were 
good-naturedly  guarding  and  guiding  the  Pope's 
guests  from  the  entrance  of  the  Piazza  to  the 
very  door  of  the  church.  But  the  little  men — 
as  they  seemed  to  Lucy's  eyes — recovered  them- 
selves in  a  twinkling,  threw  themselves  stoutly 
on  the  black  gentry,  like  sheep-dogs  on  the  sheep, 
worried  them  back  into  line,  collared  a  few  bold 
spirits  here,  formed  a  new  cordon  there,  till  all 
was  once  more  in  tolerable  order,  and  a  danger- 
ous pressure  on  the  central  door  was  averted. 

Meanwhile  Lucy  was  hurried  forward  with  the 
privileged  crowd  going  to  the  tribunes,  towards 
the  sacristy  door  on  the  south. 

"Let's  catch  up  Mrs.  Burgoyne"  —  said  the 
young  man,  looking  ahead  with  some  anxiety — 
"  Manisty's  no  use.  He'll  begin  to  moon  and  for- 
get all  about  her.  I  say ! — Look  at  the  building 
— and  the  sky  behind  it !     Isn't  it  stunning?" 

And  they  threw  up  a  hasty  glance  as  they  sped 
along  at  the  superb  walls  and  apses  and  cornices 
of  the  southern  side — golden  ivory  or  wax  against 
the  blue, — The  pigeons  flew  in  white  eddies  above 
their  heads ;  the  April  wind  flushed  Lucy's  cheek, 
130 


and  played  with  her  black  mantilla.  All  qualms 
were  gone.  After  her  days  of  seclusion  in  the 
villa  garden,  she  was  passionately  conscious  of 
this  great  Rome  and  its  magic  ;  and  under  her 
demure  and  rather  stately  air,  her  young  spirits 
danced  and  throbbed  with  pleasure. 

"  How  that  black  lace  stuff  does  become  all  you 
women!"  —  said  Reggie  Brooklyn,  throwing  a 
lordly  and  approving  glance  at  her  and  his  cousin 
Eleanor,  as  they  all  met  and  paused  amid  the 
crowd  that  was  concentrating  itself  on  the  sac- 
risty door ;  and  Lucy,  instead  of  laughing  at  the 
lad's  airs,  only  reddened  a  little  more  brightly 
and  found  it  somehow  sweet — April  sweet — that 
a  young  man  on  this  spring  morning  should  ad- 
mire her  ;  though  after  all,  she  was  hardly  more 
inclined  to  fall  in  love  with  Reggie  Brooklyn  than 
with  Manisty's  dear  collie  puppy,  that  had  been 
left  behnid  wailing,  at  the  villa. 

At  the  aci-.-al  door  the  young  man  quietly  pos- 
sessed himself  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  while  Manisty 
with  an  unconscious  look  of  relief  fell  behind. 

"And  you.  Miss  Foster, — keep  closer — my  coat's 
all  at  your  service — it'll  stand  a  pull.  Don't  you 
be  swept  away — and  I'll  answer  for  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne." 

So  on  they  hurried,  borne  along  with  the  hu- 
man current  through  passages  and  corridors, 
part  of  a  laughing,  pushing,  chatting  crowd,  con- 
taining all  the  types  that  throng  the  Roman 
streets — English  and  American  tourists,  Irish  or 
German  or  English  priests,  monks  white  and 
131 


brown,  tall  girls  who  wore  their  black  veils  with 
an  evident  delight  in  the  new  setting  thus  given 
to  their  fair  hair  and  brilliant  skins,  beside  older 
women  to  whom,  on  the  contrary,  the  dress  had 
given  a  kind  of  unwonted  repose  and  quietness 
of  look,  as  though  for  once  they  dared  to  be  them- 
selves in  it,  and  gave  up  the  struggle  with  the 
years. 

Reggie  Brooklyn  maintained  a  lively  chatter  all 
the  time,  mostly  at  Manisty's  expense.  Eleanor 
Burgoyne  first  laughed  at  his  sallies,  then  gently 
turned  her  head  in  a  pause  of  the  general  advance 
and  searched  the  crowd  pressing  at  their  heels. 
Lucy's  eyes  followed  hers,  and  there  far  behind, 
carried  forward  passively  in  a  brown  study,  losing 
ground  slightly  whenever  it  was  possible,  was 
Manisty.  The  fine  significant  face  was  turned  a 
little  upward ;  the  eyes  were  full  of  thoughts ;  he 
was  at  once  the  slave  of  the  crowd,  and  its  master. 

And  across  Eleanor's  expression  —  unseen — 
there  passed  the  slightest,  subtlest  flash  of  ten- 
derness and  pride.  She  knew  and  understood 
him — she  alone  ! 

At  last  the  doors  are  passed.  They  are  in  the 
vast  barricaded  and  partitioned  space,  already 
humming  with  the  talk  and  tread  of  thousands, 
— the  "Tu  esPetrus"  overhead.  Reggie  Brook- 
lyn would  have  hurried  them  on  in  the  general 
rush  for  the  tribunes.  But  Mrs.  Burgoyne  laid  a 
restraining  hand  upon  him.  "  No — we  mustn't 
separate,"  she  said,  gently  peremptory.  And  for 
13a 


a  few  minutes  Mr.  Reggie  in  an  anguish  must 
needs  see  the  crowd  flow  past  him,  and  the  first 
seats  of  Tribune  D  filled.  Then  Manisty  ap- 
peared, lifting  his  eyebrows  in  a  frowning  won- 
der at  the  young  man's  impatience ; — and  on  they 
flew. 

At  last ! — They  are  in  the  third  row  of  Tribune 
D,  close  to  the  line  by  which  the  Pope  must  pass, 
and  to  the  platform  from  which  he  will  deliver 
the  Apostolic  Benediction.  Reggie  the  unsatis- 
fied, the  idealist,  grumbles  that  they  ought  to 
have  been  in  the  very  front.  But  Eleanor  and 
Aunt  Pattie  are  well  satisfied.  They  find  their 
acquaintance  all  around  them.  It  is  a  general 
flutter  of  fans,  and  murmur  of  talk.  Already 
people  are  standing  on  their  seats  looking  down 
on  the  rapidly  filling  church.  In  press  the  less 
favored  thousands  from  the  Piazza,  through  the 
Atrium  and  the  Eastern  door — a  great  sea  of 
human  life  spreading  over  the  illimitable  nave 
behind  the  two  lines  of  Swiss  and  Papal  guards, 
in  quick  never-ending  waves  that  bewilder  and 
dazzle  the  eye. 

Lucy  found  the  three  hours'  wait  but  a  mo- 
ment. The  passing  and  repassing  of  the  splendid 
officials  in  their  Tudor  or  Valois  dress;  the  great 
names,  "  Colonna,"  "Barberini,"  "  Savelli,"  "Bor- 
ghese  "  that  sound  about  her,  as  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
who  knows  everybody,  at  least  by  sight,  laughs 
and  points  and  chats  with  her  neighbor,  Mr. 
Neal;  the  constant  welling  up  of  processions 
from  behind, — the  canons  and  monsignori  in  their 
133 


fur  and  lace  tippets,  the  red  cardinals  with  their 
suites;  the  entry  of  the  Guardia  Nobile,  splendid, 
incredible,  in  their  winged  Achillean  helmets 
above  their  Empire  uniforms — half  Greek,  half 
French,  half  gods,  half  dandies,  the  costliest  fool- 
ishest  plaything  that  any  court  can  show;  and 
finally  as  the  time  draws  on,  the  sudden  thrills 
and  murmurs  that  run  through  the  church,  an-^ 
nouncing  the  great  moment  which  still,  after  all, 
delays :  these  things  chase  the  minutes,  blot  out 
the  sense  of  time. 

Meanwhile,  again  and  again,  Lucy,  the  sedate, 
the  self-controlled,  cannot  prevent  herself  from 
obeying  a  common  impulse  with  those  about  her — 
from  leaping  on  her  chair — straining  her  white 
throat — her  eyes.  Then  a  handsome  chamberlain 
would  come  by,  lifting  a  hand  in  gentle  protest, 
motioning  to  the  ladies — "  De  grace,  mesdames — 
mesdames,  6.QgrdceI — "  Or  angry  murmurs  would 
rise  from  those  few  who  had  not  the  courage  or 
the  agility  to  mount — "  Giii  I  giu  / — Descendez, 
mesdames  ! — qu'est  -  ce  que  c'est  done  que  ces 
mani^res?"  —  and  Lucy,  crimson  and  abashed, 
would  descend  in  haste,  only  to  find  a  kind  Irish 
priest  behind  smiling  at  her, — prompting  her, — 
*' Never  mind  them! — take  no  notice! — who  is  ut 
you're  harmin '  ?" — And  her  excitement  would  take 
him  at  his  word — for  who  should  know  if  not  a 
priest  ? 

And  from  these  risky  heights  she  looked  down 
sometimes  on  Manisty  —  wondering  where  was 
emotion,  sympathy.  Not  a  trace  of  them!  Of 
134 


all  their  party  he  alone  was  obviously  and  hid- 
eously bored  by  the  long  wait.  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  with  folded  arms,  staring  at  the  ceil- 
ing—  yawning — fidgeting.  At  last  he  took  out 
a  small  Greek  book  from  his  pocket,  and  hung 
over  it  in  a  moody  absorption.  Once  only,  when 
a  procession  of  the  inferior  clergy  went  by,  he 
looked  at  it  closely,  turning  afterwards  to  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  with  the  emphatic  remark:  "Bad  faces! 
— aren't  they? — almost  all  of  them?" 

Yet  Lucy  could  see  that  even  here  in  this  vast 
crowd,  amid  the  hubbub  and  bustle,  he  still  count- 
ed, was  still  remembered.  Officials  came  to  lean 
and  chat  across  the  rope;  diplomats  stopped  to 
greet  him  on  the  way  to  the  august  seats  beyond 
the  Confession.  His  manner  in  return  showed 
no  particular  cordiality;  Lucy  thought  it  languid, 
even  cold.  She  was  struck  with  the  difference 
between  his  mood  of  the  day,  and  that  brilliant 
and  eager  homage  he  had  lavished  on  the  old 
Cardinal  in  the  villa  garden.  What  a  man  of 
change  and  fantasy!  Here  it  was  he  qui  tendait 
la  joiie.  Cold,  distant,  dreamy — one  would  have 
thought  him  either  indifferent  or  hostile  to  the 
whole  great  pageant  and  its  meanings. 

Only  once  did  Lucy  see  him  bestir  himself — 
show  a  gleam  of  animation.  A  white-haired 
priest,  all  tremulous  dignity  and  delicacy,  stood 
for  a  moment  beside  the  rope -barrier,  waiting 
for  a  friend.  Manisty  bent  over  and  touched 
him  on  the  arm.  The  old  man  turned.  The  face 
was  parchment,  the  cheeks  cavernous.  But  in 
135 


the  blue  eyes  there  was  an  exquisite  innocence 
and  youth. 

Manisty  smikd  at  him.  His  manner  showed 
a  peculiar  almost  a  boyish  deference.  "  You  join 
us  afterwards — at  lunch  ?" 

"Yes,  yes."  The  old  priest  beamed  and  nodded; 
then  his  friend  came  up  and  he  was  carried  on. 

"A  quarter  to  eleven,"  said  Manisty  with  a 
yawn,  looking  at  his  watch.     "  Ah! — listen!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  In  an  instant  half  the 
occupants  of  Tribune  D  were  on  their  chairs, 
Lucy  and  Eleanor  among  them.  A  roar  came 
up  the  church — passionate — indescribable.  Lucy 
held  her  breath. 

There — there  he  is, — the  old  man!  Caught  in 
a  great  shaft  of  sunlight  striking  from  south  to 
north,  across  the  church,  and  just  touching  the 
chapel  of  the  Holy  Sacrament — the  Pope  emerges. 
The  white  figure,  high  above  the  crowd,  sways 
from  side  to  side;  the  hand  upraised  gives  the 
benediction.  Fragile,  spiritual  as  is  the  appari- 
tion, the  sunbeam  refines,  subtilizes,  spiritualizes 
it  still  more.  It  hovers  like  a  dream  above  the 
vast  multitudes  —  surely  no  living  man!  —  but 
thought,  history,  faith,  taking  shape;  the  passion 
of  many  hearts  revealed.  Up  rushes  the  roar 
towards  the  Tribunes.  "Did  you  hear?"  said 
Manisty  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  lifting  a  smiling  brow, 
as  a  few  Papalino  cries — "Viva  il  Papa  Re" — 
make  themselves  heard  among  the  rest.  Elea- 
nor's thin  face  turns  to  him  with  responsive  ex- 
136 


citement.  But  she  has  seen  these  things  before. 
Instinctively  her  eyes  wander  perpetually  to 
Manisty's,  taking  their  color,  their  meaning  from 
his.  It  is  not  the  spectacle  itself  that  matters  to 
her — poor  Eleanor  !  One  heart-beat,  one  smile 
of  the  man  beside  her  outweighs  it  all.  And  he, 
roused  at  last  from  his  nonchalance,  watching 
hawklike  every  movement  of  the  figure  and  the 
crowd,  is  going  mentally  through  a  certain  page 
of  his  book,  repeating  certain  phrases — correcting 
here — strengthening  there. 

Lucy  alone — the  alien  and  Puritan  Lucy — Lucy 
surrenders  herself  completely.  She  betrays  noth- 
ing, save  by  the  slightly  parted  lips,  and  the  flut- 
ter of  the  black  veil  fastened  on  her  breast;  but 
it  is  as  though  her  whole  inner  being  were  dis- 
solving, melting  away,  in  the  flame  of  the  moment. 
It  is  her  first  contact  with  decisive  central  things, 
her  first  taste  of  the  great  world-play,  as  Europe 
has  known  it  and  taken  part  in  it,  at  least  since 
Charles  the  Great. 

Yet,  as  she  looks,  within  the  visible  scene,  there 
opens  another:  the  porch  of  a  plain,  shingled 
house,  her  uncle  sitting  within  it,  his  pipe  and  his 
newspaper  on  his  knee,  sunning  himself  in  the 
April  morning.  She  passes  behind  him,  looks 
mto  the  stiff  leaf-scented  parlor — at  the  framed 
Declaration  of  Independence  on  the  walls,  the 
fresh  boughs  in  the  fireplace,  the  Bible  on  its 
table,  the  rag -carpet  before  the  hearth.  She 
breathes  the  atmosphere  of  the  house;  its  stern 
independence  and  simplicities;  the  scorns  and 
'  137 


the  denials,  the  sturdy  freedoms  both  of  body 
and  soul  that  it  implies -^conscience  the  only- 
master — vice-master  for  God,  in  this  His  house 
of  the  World.  And  beyond — as  her  lids  sink  for 
an  instant  on  the  pageant  before  her — she  hears, 
as  it  were,  the  voices  of  her  country,  so  young 
and  raw  and  strong! — she  feels  within  her  the 
throb  of  its  struggling  self-assertive  life;  she 
is  conscious  too  of  the  uglinesses  and  meannesses 
that  belong  to  birth  and  newness,  to  growth  and 
fermentation.  Then,  in  a  proud  timidity — as  one 
who  feels  herself  an  alien  and  on  sufferance — she 
hangs  again  upon  the  incomparable  scene.  This 
is  St.  Peter's ;  there  is  the  dome  of  Michael  An- 
gelo;  and  here,  advancing  towards  her  amid  the 
red  of  the  cardinals,  the  clatter  of  the  guards,  the 
tossing  of  the  flabellae,  as  though  looking  at  her 
alone — the  two  waxen  fingers  raised  for  her  alone 
— is  the  white-robed  triple-crowned  Pope. 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  sight  with  passion, 
trying  to  penetrate  and  possess  it;  and  it  baffled 
her,  passed  her  by.  Some  force  of  resistance 
within  her  cried  out  to  it  that  she  was  not  its 
subject — rather  its  enemy!  And  august,  unheed- 
ing, the  great  pageant  swept  on.  Close,  close  to 
her  now!  Down  sink  the  crowd  upon  the  chairs; 
the  heads  fall  like  corn  before  the  wind.  Lucy 
is  bending  too.  The  Papal  chair  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  guards  is  now  but  a  few  feet  dis 
tant;  vaguely  she  wonders  that  the  old  man 
keeps  his  balance,  as  he  clings  with  one  frail  hand 
to  the  arm  of  the  chair,  rises  incessantly — and 
138 


blesses  with  the  other.  She  catches  the  very 
look  and  meaning  of  the  eyes — the  sharp  long 
line  of  the  closed  and  toothless  jaw.  Spirit  and 
spectre; — embodying  the  Past,  bearing  the  clew 
to  the  Future. 

"  Yeux  de  police  r — laughed  Reggie  Brooklyn 
to  Mrs.  Burgoyne  as  the  procession  passed — 
"don't  you  know  ? — that's  what  they  say." 

Manisty  bent  forward.  The  flush  of  excite- 
ment was  still  on  his  cheek,  but  he  threw  a  little 
nod  to  Brooklyn,  whose  gibe  amused  him. 

Lucy  drew  a  long  breath — and  the  spell  was 
broken. 

Nor  was  it  again  renewed,  in  the  same  way. 
The  Pope  and  his  cortege  disappeared  behind 
the  Confession,  behind  the  High  Altar,  and  pres- 
ently, Lucy,  craning  her  neck  to  the  right,  could 
see  dimly  in  the  farthest  distance,  against  the 
apse,  and  under  the  chair  of  St.  Peter,  the  chair 
of  Leo  XIII.  and  the  white  shadow,  motionless, 
erect,  within  it,  amid  a  court  of  cardinals  and  dip- 
lomats. As  for  the  mass  that  followed,  it  had  its 
moments  of  beauty  for  the  girl's  wondering  or 
shrinking  curiosity,  but  also  its  moments  of 
weariness  and  disillusion.  From  the  latticed 
choir-gallery,  placed  against  one  of  the  great  piers 
of  the  dome,  came  unaccompanied  music — fine, 
pliant,  expressive — like  a  single  voice  moving 
freely  in  the  vast  space  ;  and  at  the  High  Altar, 
cardinals  and  bishops  crossed  and  recrossed, 
knelt  and  rose,  offered  and  put  off  the  mitre; 


amid  wreaths  of  incense,  long  silences,  a  few 
chanted  words  ;  sustained,  enfolded  all  the  while 
by  the  swelling  tide  of  Gloria^  or  Sanctus. 

At  last — the  elevation ! — and  at  the  bell  the 
whole  long  double  line  of  soldiers,  from  the  Pope's 
chair  at  the  western  end  to  the  eastern  door, 
with  a  rattle  of  arms  that  ran  from  end  to  end 
of  the  church,  dropped  on  one  knee — saluted. 
Then,  crac ! — and  as  they  had  dropped,  they 
rose,  the  stiff  white  breeches  and  towering  hel- 
mets of  the  Guardia  Nobile,  the  red  and  yel- 
low of  the  Swiss,  the  red  and  blue  of  the  Pa- 
pal guards — all  motionless  as  before.  It  was 
like  the  movement  of  some  gigantic  toy.  And 
who  or  what  else  took  any  notice  ?  Lucy 
looked  round  amazed.  Even  the  Irish  priest  be- 
hind her  had  scarcely  bowed  his  head.  Nobody 
knelt.  Most  people  were  talking.  Eleanor  Bur- 
goyne  indeed  had  covered  her  face  with  her  long 
delicate  fingers.  Manisty  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  looked  up  for  an  instant  at  the  rattlo  of 
the  soldiers,  then  went  back  sleepily  to  his  Greek 
book.  Yet  Lucy  felt  her  own  heart  throbbing. 
Through  the  candelabra  of  the  High  Altar  be- 
neath the  dome,  she  can  see  the  moving  figures 
pf  the  priests,  the  wreaths  of  incense  ascending. 
The  face  of  the  celebrant  cardinal,  which  had 
dropped  out  of  sight,  reappears.  Since  it  was 
last  visible,  according  to  Catholic  faith,  the 
great  act  of  Catholic  worship  had  been  accom- 
plished— the  Body  and  Blood  are  there— God  has 
descended,  has  mingled  with  a  mortal  frame. 
140 


And  who  cares?     Lucy  looks  round  her  at  the 

good-humored  indifference,  vacancy,  curiosity,  of 
the  great  multitude  filling  the  nave ;  and  her  soul 
frees  itself  in  a  rush  of  protesting  amazement. 

One  more  "  moment  **  however  there  was,— 
very  different  from  the  great  moment  of  the 
entry,  yet  beautiful.  The  mass  is  over,  and  a 
temporary  platform  has  been  erected  between 
the  Confession  and  the  nave.  The  Pope  has 
been  placed  upon  it,  and  is  about  to  chant  the 
Apostolic  Benediction. 

The  ol '  man  is  within  thirty  feet  of  Manisty, 
who  sits  nearest  to  the  barrier.  The  red  cardi- 
nal holding  the  service-book,  the  groups  of  guards, 
clergy  and  high  officials,  every  detail  of  the 
Pope's  gorgeous  dress,  nay  every  line  of  the 
wrinkled  face,  and  fleshless  hands,  Lucy's  eyes 
command  them  all.  The  quavering  voice  rises 
into  the  sudden  silence  of  St,  Peter's.  Fifty 
thousand  people  hush  every  movement,  strain 
their  ears  to  listen. 

Ah  !  how  weak  it  is  !  Surely  the  effort  is  too 
great  for  a  frame  so  enfeebled,  so  ancient.  It 
should  not  have  been  exacted — allowed.  Lucy's 
ears  listen  painfully  for  the  inevitable  break. 
But  no ! — The  Pope  draws  a  long  sigh — the  sigh 
of  weakness, — ("  Ah  !  poveretto  !"  says  a  woman, 
close  to  Lucy,  in  a  transport  of  pity), — then  once 
more  attempts  the  chant — sighs  again — and  sings. 
Lucy's  face  softens  and  glows  ;  her  eyes  fill  with 
tears.  Nothing  more  touching,  more  triumphant, 
141 


than  this  weakness  and  this  perseverance.  Frag- 
ile indomitable  face  beneath  the  Papal  crown  ! 
Under  the  eyes  of  fifty  thousand  people  the  Pope 
sighs  like  a  child,  because  he  is  weak  and  old,  and 
the  burden  of  his  office  is  great ;  but  in  sighing, 
keeps  a  perfect  simplicity,  dignity,  courage.  Not 
a  trace  of  stoical  concealment ;  but  also  not  a 
trace  of  flinching.  He  sings  to  the  end,  and  St. 
Peter's  listens  in  a  tender  hush. 

Then  there  seems  to  be  a  moment  of  collapse. 
The  long  straight  lips  close  as  though  with  a  snap, 
the  upper  jaw  protruding  ;  the  eyelids  drop;  the 
emaciated  form  sinks  upon  itself. — 

But  his  guards  raise  the  chair,  and  the  Pope's 
trance  passes  away.  He  opens  his  eyes,  and 
braces  himself  for  the  last  effort.  Whiter  than 
the  gorgeous  cope  which  falls  about  him,  he  raises 
himself,  clinging  to  the  chair  ;  he  lifts  the  skele- 
ton fingers  of  his  partly  gloved  hand  ;  his  look 
searches  the  crowd. 

Lucy  fell  on  her  knees,  a  sob  in  her  throat. 
When  the  Pope  had  passed,  some  influence  made 
her  look  up.  She  met  the  eyes  of  Edward  Man- 
isty.  They  were  instantly  withdrawn,  but  not  be- 
fore the  mingling  of  amusement  and  triumph  in 
them  had  brought  the  quick  red  to  the  girl's  cheek. 

And  outside,  in  the  Piazza,  amid  the  out-pour- 
ing thousands,  as  they  were  rushing  for  their 
carriage,  Manisty's  stride  overtook  her. 

"  Well — you  were  impressed  ?" — he  said,  look- 
ing at  her  sharply. 

142 


The  girl's  pride  was  somehow  nettled  by  his 
tone. 

"  Yes — but  by  the  old  man — more  than  by  the 
Pope," — she  said  quickly. 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  said,  with  emphasis. — "  Other- 
wise you  would  have  missed  the  whole  point." 

"  Why  ? — Mayn't  one  feel  it  was  pathetic,  and 
touching — " 

"  No — not  in  the  least  !"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"What  does  the  man  himself  matter,  or  his  age  ? 
— That's  all  irrelevant,  foolish  sentiment.  What 
makes  these  ceremonies  so  tremendous  is  that 
there  is  no  break  between  that  man  and  Peter — 
or  Linus,  if  you  like — it  comes  to  the  same  thing: 
— that  the  bones,  if  not  of  Peter,  at  any  rate  of 
men  who  might  have  known  Peter,  are  there, 
mingled  with  the  earth  beneath  his  feet — that  he 
stands  there  recognized  by  half  the  civilized  world 
as  Peter's  successor — that  five  hundred,  a  thou- 
sand years  hence,  the  vast  probability  is  there 
will  still  be  a  Pope  in  St.  Peter's  to  hand  on  the 
same  traditions,  and  make  the  same  claims." 

"  But  if  you  don't  acknowledge  the  tradition 
or  the  claims  ! — why  shouldn't  you  feel  just  the 
human  interest  ?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want  to  take  the  mere 
vulgar,  parochial  view— the  halfpenny  interview- 
er's view — why,  you  must  take  it !"  he  said,  al- 
most with  violence,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

Lucy's  eyes  sparkled.    There  was  always  some- 
thing of  the  overgrown,  provoking  child  in  him, 
when  he  wanted  to  bear  down  an  opinion  or  feej- 
143 


ing  that  displeased  him.  She  would  have  liked 
to  go  on  walking  and  wrangling  with  him,  for 
the  great  ceremony  had  excited  her,  and  made  it 
easier  for  her  to  talk.  But  at  that  moment  Mrs. 
Burgoyne's  voice  was  heard  in  front  —  "Joy! 
there  is  the  carriage,  and  Reggie  has  picked  up 
another. — Edward,  take  Aunt  Pattie  through — 
we'll  look  after  ourselves.'* 

And  soon  the  whole  party  were  driving  in  two 
of  the  little  Roman  victorias  through  streets  at 
the  back  of  the  Capitol,  and  round  the  base  of 
the  Palatine,  to  the  Aventine,  where  it  appeared 
they  were  to  lunch  at  an  open-air  trattoria^  reC' 
ommended  by  Mr.  Brooklyn. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne,  Lucy  and  Mr.  Vanbrugh  Neal 
found  themselves  together.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  and 
Mr.  Neal  talked  of  the  function,  and  Lucy,  after 
a  few  shy  expressions  of  gratitude  and  pleasure, 
fell  silent,  and  listened.  But  she  noticed  very 
soon  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  talking  absently. 
Amid  the  black  that  fell  about  her  slim  tallness, 
she  was  more  fragile,  more  pale  than  ever ;  and 
it  seemed  to  Lucy  that  her  eyes  were  dark  with  a 
fatigue  that  had  not  much  to  do  with  St.  Peter's. 
Suddenly  indeed,  she  bent  forward  and  said  in  a 
lowered  voice  to  Mr.  Neal— 

"You  have  read  it?'* 

He  too  bent  forward,  with  a  smile  not  quite 
free  from  etnbarrassment — 

"  Yes,  i  have  read  it — I  shall  have  sortie  criti- 
cisms to  make. — You  won't  mind  ?" 
144 


She  threw  up  her  hands — 

"  Must  you  ?" 

"  I  think  I  must — for  the  good  of  the  book," — 
he  said  reluctantly.  "Very  likely  I'm  all  wrong. 
I  can  only  look  at  it  as  one  of  the  public.  But 
that's  what  he  wants, — what  you  both  want — 
isn't  it  ?" 

She  assented.  Then  she  turned  her  head  away, 
looked  out  of  the  carriage  and  said  no  more. 
But  her  face  had  drooped  and  dimmed,  all  in  a 
moment ;  the  lines  graven  in  it  long  years  be- 
fore, by  grief  and  delicacy,  came  out  with  a  sin- 
gular and  sudden  plainness. 

The  man  sitting  opposite  to  her  was  of  an  as- 
pect little  less  distinguished  than  hers.  He  had 
a  long  face,  with  a  high  forehead,  set  in  grizzled 
hair,  and  a  mouth  and  chin  of  peculiar  refine- 
ment. The  shortness  of  the  chin  gave  a  first 
impression  of  weakness,  which  however  was  soon 
undone  by  the  very  subtle  and  decided  lines  in 
which,  so  to  speak,  the  mouth,  and  indeed  the 
face  as  a  whole,  were  drawn.  All  that  Lucy  knew 
of  him  was  that  he  was  a  Cambridge  don,  a  man 
versed  in  classical  archaeology  who  was  an  old 
friend  and  tutor  of  Mr.  Manisty's.  She  had  heard 
his  name  mentioned  several  times  at  the  Villa, 
^tid  always  with  an  emphasis  that  marked  it  out 
from  other  names.  And  she  understood  from 
various  signs  that  before  finally  passing  his  proofs 
for  publication,  Mr.  Manisty  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  his  old  friend's  coming  to  Rome  to  ask 
bis  opinion  on  them. 

US 


How  brilliant  was  the  April  day  on  the  high 
terrace  of  the  Aventine  trattoria  !  As  Lucy  and 
Aunt  Pattie  stood  together  beside  the  little  par- 
apet looking  out  through  the  sprays  of  banksia 
rose  that  were  already  making  a  white  canopy 
above  the  restaurant  tables,  they  had  before 
them  the  steep  sides  and  Imperial  ruins  of  the 
Palatine  ;  the  wonderful  group  of  churches  on 
the  Coelian  ;  the  low  villa-covered  ridges  to  the 
right  melting  into  the  Campagna ;  and  far  away, 
the  blue,  Sabine  mountains — "  suffused  with  sun- 
ny air" — that  look  down  with  equal  kindness  on 
the  refuge  of  Horace,  and  the  oratory  of  St.  Ben- 
edict. What  sharpness  of  wall  and  tree  against 
the  pearly  sky — what  radiance  of  blossom  in  the 
neighboring  gardens — what  ruin  everywhere,  yet 
what  indomitable  life ! 

Beneath  on  a  lower  terrace,  Manisty  and  Mr. 
Vanbrugh  Neal  were  walking  up  and  down., 

"  He's  such  a  clever  man,"  sighed  Aunt  Pattie, 
as  she  looked  down  upon  them.  "  But  I  do  hope 
he  won't  discourage  Edward." 

Whereupon  she  glanced  not  at  Manisty  but  at 
Eleanor,  who  was  sitting  near  them,  pretending 
to  talk  to  Reggie  Brooklyn — but  in  reality  watch- 
ing the  conversation  below. 

Presently  some  other  guests  arrived,  and 
among  them  the  tall  and  fine-faced  priest  who 
had  spoken  to  Manisty  in  St.  Peter's.  He  came 
in  very  shyly.  Eleanor  Burgoyne  received  him, 
made  him  sit  by  her,  and  took  charge  of  him  till 
Manisty  should  appear.  But  he  seemed  to  be 
146 


ill  at  ease  with  ladies.  He  buried  his  hands  in 
^he  sleeves  of  his  soutane,  and  would  answer  lit- 
tle more  than  Yes  and  No. 

•'  There'll  be  a  great  fuss  about  him  soon," 
whispered  Aunt  Pattie  in  Lucy's  ear  —  "I  don't 
quite  understand — but  he's  written  a  book  that's 
been  condemned;  and  the  question  is,  will  he 
submit?  They  give  you  a  year  apparently  to 
decide  in.  Edward  says  the  book's  quite  right 
— and  yet  they  were  quite  right  to  condemn  him. 
It's  very  puzzling !" 

When  Manisty  and  Mr.  Neal  answered  to  the 
call  of  luncheon,  Mr.  Neal  mounted  the  steps 
leading  to  the  open-air  restaurant,  with  the  some- 
what sheepish  air  of  the  man  who  has  done  his 
duty,  and  is  inclined  to  feel  himself  a  meddler 
for  his  pains.  The  luncheon  itself  passed  with- 
out gayety.  Manisty  was  either  moodily  silent, 
or  engaged  in  discussions  with  the  strange  priest. 
Father  Benecke,  as  to  certain  incidents  connect- 
ed with  a  South  German  University,  which  had 
lately  excited  Catholic  opinion.  He  scarcely 
spoke  to  any  of  the  ladies — least  of  all  to  Eleanor 
Burgoyne.  She  and  Aunt  Pattie  must  needs 
make  all  the  greater  efforts  to  carry  off  the  festa. 
Aunt  Pattie  chattered  nervously  like  one  in  dread 
of  a  silence,  while  Eleanor  was  merry  with  young 
Brooklyn,  and  courteous  to  the  other  guests 
whom  Manisty  had  invited  —  a  distinguished 
French  journalist  for  instance,  an  English  mem- 
ber of  Parliament  and  his  daughter,  and  an  Ital- 
ian senator  with  an  English  wife, 
147 


Nevertheless  when  the  party  was  breaking  up, 
Reggie,  who  had  thrown  her  occasional  glances 
of  disquiet,  approached  Lucy  Foster  and  said 
to  her  in  a  low  voice,  twirling  an  angry  mus- 
tache— 

"Mrs.  Burgoyne  is  worn  out.  Can't  you  look 
after  her  ?" 

Lucy,  a  little  scared  by  so  much  responsibility, 
did  her  best.  She  dissuaded  Aunt  Pattie  from 
dragging  Mrs.  Burgoyne  through  an  afternoon 
of  visits.  She  secured  an  early  train  for  the  re- 
turn to  Marinata,  and  so  earned  a  special  and 
approving  smile  from  Mr.  Reggie,  when  at  last 
he  had  settled  the  three  ladies  safely  in  their 
carriage,  and  was  raising  his  hat  to  them  on  the 
platform.  Manisty  and  Mr.  Neal  were  to  follow 
by  a  later  train. 

No  sooner  were  they  speeding  through  the 
Campagna  than  Eleanor  sank  back  in  her  corner 
with  a  long  involuntary  sigh. 

"My  dear — you  are  very  tired!" — exclaimed 
Miss  Manisty. 

"  No.—" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  took  off  the  hat  which  had  by 
now  replaced  the  black  veil  of  the  morning,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Her  attitude  by  its  sad  unre- 
sistingness  appealed  to  Lucy  as  it  had  done  once 
before.  And  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  what 
she  saw  was  not  mere  physical  fatigue,  but  a  deep 
discouragement  of  mind  and  heart.  As  to  the 
true  sources  of  it  Lucy  could  only  guess.  She 
guessed  at  any  rate  that  they  Were  somehow 
148 


connected  with  Mr.  Manisty  and  his  book  ;  and 
she  was  indignant  again — she  hardly  knew  why. 
The  situation  suggested  to  her  a  great  devotion 
ill-repaid,  a  friendship,  of  which  the  strong  tyr- 
annous man  took  advantage.  Why  should  he 
behave  as  though  all  that  happened  ill  with  re- 
gard to  his  book  was  somehow  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
fault?  Claim  all  her  time  and  strength — over- 
strain and  overwork  her  —  and  then  make  her 
tacitly  responsible  if  anything  went  amiss  !  It 
was  like  the  petulant  selfishness  of  his  character. 
Miss  Manisty  ought  to  interfere  ! 

Dreary  days  followed  at  the  villa. 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Vanbrugh  Neal  had  in- 
deed raised  certain  critical  objections  both  to 
the  facts  and  to  the  arguments  of  one  whole  sec- 
tion of  the  book,  and  that  Manisty  had  been  un- 
able to  resist  them.  The  two  men  would  walk 
up  and  down  the  ilex  avenues  of  the  garden  for 
hours  together,  Mr.  Neal  gentle,  conciliating,  but 
immovable ;  Manisty  violent  and  excited,  but  al- 
ways submitting  in  the  end.  He  would  defend 
his  point  of  view  with  obstinacy,  with  offensive- 
ness  even,  for  an  afternoon,  and  then  give  way, 
with  absolute  suddenness.  Lucy  learned  with 
some  astonishment  that  beneath  his  outward 
egotism  he  was  really  amazingly  dependent  on 
the  opinions  of  two  or  three  people,  of  whom  Mr. 
Neal  seemed  to  be  one.  This  dependence  turned 
out  indeed  to  be  even  excessive.  He  would  make 
a  hard  fight  for  his  own  way;  but  in  the  end  he 
149 


was  determined  that  what  he  wrote  should  please 
his  friends,  and  please  a  certain  public.  At  bot- 
tom he  was  a  rhetorician  writing  for  this  public 
— the  slave  of  praise,  and  eager  for  fame,  which 
made  his  complete  indifference  as  to  what  people 
thought  of  his  actions  all  the  more  remarkable. 
He  lived  to  please  himself ;  he  wrote  to  be  read ; 
and  he  had  found  reason  to  trust  the  instinct  of 
certain  friends  in  this  respect,  Vanbrugh  Neal 
among  them. 

To  do  him  justice,  indeed,  along  with  his  de- 
pendence on  Vanbrugh  Neal's  opinion,  there 
seemed  to  go  a  rather  winning  dependence  on 
his  affection. 

Mr.  Neal  was  apparently  a  devout  Anglican,  of 
a  delicate  and  scrupulous  type.  His  temper  was 
academic,  his  life  solitary ;  rhetoric  left  him  un- 
moved, and  violence  of  statement  caused  him  to 
shiver.  To  make  the  State  religious  was  his 
dearest  wish.  But  he  did  not  forget  that  to  ac- 
complish it  you  must  keep  the  Church  reason- 
able. A  deep,  though  generally  silent  enthu- 
siasm for  the  Anglican  Via  Media  possessed 
him  ;  and,  like  the  Newman  of  Oriel,  he  was  in- 
clined to  look  upon  the  appearance  of  Antichrist 
as  coincident  with  the  Council  of  Trent.  In 
England  it  seemed  to  him  that  persecution  of 
the  Church  was  gratuitous  and  inexcusable  ;  for 
the  Church  had  never  wronged  the  State.  In 
Italy,  on  the  contrary,  supposing  the  State  had 
been  violent,  it  could  plead  the  earlier  violences 
of  the  Church.  He  did  not  see  how  the  ugly 
150 


facts  could  be  denied;  nor  did  a  candid  unveiling 
of  them  displease  his  Anglican  taste. 

"You  should  have  made  a  study  —  and  you 
have  written  a  pamphlet,"  he  would  say,  with 
that  slow  shake  of  the  head  which  showed  him 
inexorable.  "  Why  have  you  given  yourself  to 
the  Jesuits  ?  You  were  an  Englishman  and  an 
outsider — enormous  advantages !  Why  have  you 
thrown  them  away?'* 

"  One  must  have  information  ! — I  merely  went 
to  headquarters." 

"You  have  paid  it  too  dear.  Your  book  is  a 
plea  for  superstition !" 

Whereupon  a  flame  in  Manisty's  black  eyes, 
and  a  burst  in  honor  of  superstition,  which  set 
the  garden  paths  echoing. 

But  Neal  pushed  quietly  on  ;  untiring,  unap- 
peasable ;  pointing  to  a  misstatement  here,  an 
exaggeration  there,  till  Manisty  was  in  a  roar  of 
argument,  furious  half  with  his  friend,  half  with 
himself. 

Meanwhile  if  the  writer  bore  attack  hardly,  the 
man  of  piety  found  it  still  harder  to  endure  the 
praise  of  piety.  When  Manisty  denounced  irre- 
sponsible science  and  free  thought,  as  the  ene- 
mies of  the  State,  which  must  live,  and  can  only 
live  by  religion  ;  when  he  asked  with  disdain 
"  what  reasonable  man  would  nowadays  weigh 
the  membership  of  the  Catholic  church  against 
an  opinion  in  geology  or  exegesis ";  when  he 
dwelt  on  the  easiness  of  faith, — which  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  knowledge,  and  had,  there- 
151 


fore,  no  quarrel  with  knowledge;  or  upon  the  in- 
comparable social  power  of  religion; — his  friend 
grew  restive.  And  while  Manisty,  intoxicated 
with  his  own  phrases,  and  fluencies,  was  alter- 
nately smoking  and  declaiming,  Neal  with  his 
gray  hair,  his  tall  spare  form,  and  his  air  of  old- 
fashioned  punctilium,  would  sit  near,  fixing  the 
speaker  with  his  pale-blue  eyes, — a  little  threat- 
eningly ;  always  ready  to  shatter  an  exuberance, 
to  check  an  oratorical  flow  by  some  quick  double- 
edged  word  that  would  make  Manisty  trip  and 
stammer ;  showing,  too,  all  the  time,  by  his  evi- 
dent shrinking,  by  certain  impregnable  reserves, 
or  by  the  banter  that  hid  a  feeling  too  keen  to 
show  itself,  how  great  is  the  gulf  between  a  lit- 
erary and  a  practical  Christianity. 

Nevertheless,  from  the  whole  wrestle  two  facts 
emerged: — the  pleasure  which  these  very  dissim^ 
ilar  men  took  in  each  other's  society;  and  that 
strange  ultimate  pliancy  of  Manisty  which  lay 
hidden  somewhere  under  all  the  surge  and  froth 
of  his  vivacious  rhetoric.  Both  were  equally  sur- 
prising to  Lucy  Foster.  How  had  Manisty  ever 
attached  himself  to  Vanbrugh  Neal  ?  For  Neal 
had  a  large  share  of  the  weaknesses  of  the  stu- 
dents' recluse ;  the  failings,  that  is  to  say,  of  a 
man  who  has  lived  much  alone,  and  found  him- 
self driven  to  an  old-maidish  care  of  health  and 
nerves,  if  a  delicate  physique  was  to  do  its  work. 
He  had  fads;  and  his  fads  were  often  unexpected 
and  disconcerting.  One  day  he  would  not  walk; 
another  day  he  would  not  eat ;  driving  was  out 
152 


of  the  question,  and  the  sun  must  be  avoided 
like  the  plague.  Then  again  it  was  the  turn  of 
exercise,  cold  baths,  and  hearty  fare.  It  was  all 
done  with  a  grace  that  made  his  whims  more 
agreeable  than  other  men's  sense.  But  one  might 
have  supposed  that  such  claims  on  a  friend's  part 
would  have  annoyed  a  man  of  Manisty's  equally 
marked  but  very  different  peculiarities.  Not  at 
all.  He  was  patience  and  good-temper  itself  on 
these  occasions. 

"Isn't  he  bon  enfant?**  Mr.  Neal  said  once  to 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  in  Lucy's  presence,  with  a  sudden 
accent  of  affection  and  emotion — on  some  occa- 
sion when  Manisty  had  borne  the  upsetting  of 
some  plan  for  the  afternoon  with  a  quite  remark- 
able patience. 

**  He  has  learned  how  to  spoil  jk^?^/"  said  Elea- 
nor, with  a  fluttering  smile,  and  an  immediate 
change  of  subject.  Lucy  looking  up,  felt  a  little 
pang. 

For  nothing  could  be  more,  curious  than  the 
change  in  Manisty's  manner  towards  the  most 
constant  of  companions  and  secretaries.  He  had 
given  up  all  continuous  work  at  his  book ;  he 
talked  now  of  indefinite  postponement ;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  with  the  change  of  plan  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne had  dropped  out  of  the  matter  altogether. 
'.He  scarcely  consulted  her  indeed  ;  he  consulted 
Mr.  Neal.  Mr.  Neal  often,  moved  by  a  secret 
chivalry,  would  insist  upon  bringing  her  in  to 
their  counsels ;  Manisty  immediately  became  un- 
manageable, silent,  and  embarrassed.  And  how 
IS3 


characteristic  and  significant  was  that  embar- 
rassment of  his  !  It  was  as  though  he  had  a 
grievance  against  her ;  which  however  he  could 
neither  formulate  for  himself  nor  express  to  her. 

On  the  other  hand — perhaps  inevitably — he 
began  to  take  much  more  notice  of  Lucy  Foster, 
and  to  find  talking  with  her  an  escape.  He  pres- 
ently found  it  amusing  to  "draw  "  her  ;  and  sub- 
jects presented  themselves  in  plenty.  She  was 
now  much  less  shy  ;  and  her  secret  disapproval 
gave  her  tongue.  His  challenges  and  her  replies 
became  a  feature  of  the  day  ;  Miss  Manisty  and 
Mr.  Neal  began  to  listen  with  half-checked  smiles, 
to  relish  the  girl's  crisp  frankness,  and  the  quick 
sense  of  fun  that  dared  to  show  itself  now^hat 
she  was  more  at  home. 

"  And  how  improved  she  is  !  That's  like  all  the 
Americans — they're  so  adaptable," — Miss  Man- 
isty would  think,  as  she  watched  her  nephew  in 
the  evenings  teasing,  sparring,  or  arguing  with 
Lucy  Foster — she  so  adorably  young  and  fresh, 
the  new  and  graceful  lines  of  the  coiffure  that 
Eleanor  had  forced  upon  her,  defining  the  clear 
oval  of  the  face  and  framing  the  large  eyes  and 
pure  brow.  Her  hands,  perhaps,  would  be  lightly 
clasped  on  her  white  lap,  their  long  fingers  play- 
ing with  some  flower  she  had  taken  from  her  belt. 
The  lines  of  the  girlish  figure  would  be  full  of 
dignity  and  strength.  She  might  have  been  her- 
self the  young  America,  arguing,  probing,  decid- 
ing for  herself — refusing  to  be  overawed  or  brow- 
beaten by  the  old  Europe. 
154 


Eleanor  meanwhile  was  unlailingly  gracious 
both  to  Lucy  and  the  others,  though  perhaps  the 
grace  had  in  it  sometimes  a  new  note  of  distance, 
of  that  delicate  hauteur^  which  every  woman  of 
the  world  has  at  command.  She  gave  as  much 
attention  as  ever — more  than  ever — to  the  fash- 
ioning of  Lucy's  dresses  ;  the  girl  was  constantly 
pricked  with  compunction  and  shame  on  the  sub- 
ject. Who  was  she,  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne — so  ele- 
gant and  distinguished  a  person — should  waste 
so  much  time  and  thought  upon  her  ?  But  some- 
times she  could  not  help  seeing  that  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne was  glad  of  the  occupation.  Her  days  had 
been  full  to  the  brim  ;  they  were  now  empty. 
She  said  nothing ;  she  took  up  the  new  books  ; 
she  talked  to  and  instructed  the  maids ;  but 
Lucy  divined  a  secret  suffering. 

One  evening,  about  a  week  after  Mr.  Neal's  ar- 
rival at  the  villa,  Manisty  was  more  depressed 
than  usual.  He  had  been  making  some  attempts 
to  rearrange  a  certain  section  of  his  book  which 
had  fallen  especially  under  the  ban  of  Neal's  criti- 
cism. He  had  not  been  successful ;  and  in  the 
process  his  discontent  with  one  chapter  had 
spread  to  several.  In  talking  about  the  matter 
to  Vanbrugh  Neal  in  the  salon  after  dinner  he 
broke  out  into  some  expression  of  disgust  as  to 
the  waste  of  time  involved  in  much  of  his  work 
of  the  winter.  The  two  friends  were  in  a 
corner  of  the  vast  room  ;  and  Manisty  spoke 
in  an  undertone.  But  his  voice  had  the 
155 


carrying  and  penetrating  power  of  his  person- 
ality. 

Presently  Eleanor  Burgoyne  rose,  and  softly 
approached  Miss  Manisty.  "  Dear  Aunt  Pattie— 
don't  move  " — she  said,  bending  over  her — "  I  am 
tired  and  will  go  to  bed." 

Manisty,  who  had  turned  at  her  movement, 
sprang  up,  and  came  to  her. 

"  Eleanor  !  did  we  walk  you  too  far  this  after- 
noon ?" 

She  smiled,  but  hardly  replied.  He  busied  him- 
self with  gathering  up  her  possessions,  and  lit  her 
candle  at  the  side-table. 

As  she  passed  by  him  to  the  door,  he  looked  at 
her  furtively  for  a  moment, — hanging  his  head. 
Then  he  pressed  her  hand,  and  said  so  that  only 
she  could  hear — 

"I  should  have  kept  my  regrets  to  myself!" 

She  shook  her  head,  with  faint  mockery. 

"  It  would  be  the  first  time." 

Her  hand  dropped  from  his,  and  she  passed  out 
of  sight.  Manisty  walked  back  to  his  seat  dis- 
comfited. He  could  not  defend  himself  against 
the  charges  of  secret  tyranny  and  abominable 
ill-humor  that  his  conscience  was  pricking  him 
with.  He  was  sorry — he  would  have  liked  to  tell 
her  so.  And  yet  somehow  her  very  weakness 
and  sweetness,  her  delicate  uncomplainingness 
seemed  only  to  develop  his  own  small  egotisms 
and  pugnacities. 

That  night  —  a  night   of  rain   and   sirocco— 
156 


Eleanor  wrote  in  her  journal — "  Will  he  ever 
finish  the  book  ?  Very  possibly  it  has  been  all  a 
mistake.  Yet  when  he  began  it,  he  was  in  the 
depths.  Whatever  happens,  it  has  been  his  sal- 
vation. 

" — Surely  he  will  finish  it?  He  cannot  forego 
the  effect  he  is  almost  sure  it  will  produce.  But 
he  will  finish  it  with  impatience  and  disgust,  he 
is  out  of  love  with  it  and  all  its  associations.  All 
that  he  was  talking  of  to-night  represents  what 
I  had  most  share  in, — the  chapters  which  brought 
us  most  closely  together.  How  happy  we  were 
over  them !     And  now,  how  different ! 

"It  is  curious — the  animation  with  which  he 
has  begun  to  talk  to  Lucy  Foster.  Pretty  child  ! 
I  like  to  feel  that  I  have  been  the  fairy  god- 
mother, dressing  her  for  the  ball.  How  little  she 
knows  what  it  means  to  be  talked  to  by  him,  to 
receive  courtesies  from  him, — how  many  women 
would  like  to  be  in  her  place.  Yet  now  she  is 
not  shy  ;  she  has  no  alarms ;  she  treats  him  like 
an  equal.  If  it  were  not  ridiculous,  one  could  be 
angry. 

"  She  dislikes  and  criticises  him,  and  he  can 
have  no  possible  understanding  of  or  sympathy 
with  her.  But  she  is  a  way  out  of  embarrass- 
ment. How  fastidious  and  proud  he  is  with 
women  !  —  malicious  too,  and  wilful.  Often  I 
have  wished  him  more  generous — more  kind. 

"...  In  three  weeks  the  anniversary  will  be 
here— the  ninth.  Why  am  I  still  alive?  How 
often  have  I  asked  myself  that ! — Where  is  my 
157 


place  ? — who  needs  me  ? — My  babe,  if  he  still  ex- 
ists, is  alone — there.  And  I  still  here.  If  I  had 
only  had  the  courage  to  rejoin  him  !  The  doc- 
tors deceived  me.  They  made  me  think  it  could 
not  be  long.  And  now  I  am  better — much  bet- 
ter.    If  I  were  happy  I  should  be  quite  well. 

**  How  weary  seems  this  Italian  spring ! — the 
restlessness  of  this  eternal  wind — the  hot  clouds 
that  roll  up  from  the  Campagna.  *  Que  vivre  est 
difficile,  6  mon  cceur  f atigu6 1* " 


CHAPTER    Vn 

I  THINK  it's  lovely,"  said  Lucy  in  an  em- 
barrassed voice.  "And  I  just  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you — indeed  I  don't." 
She  was  standing  inside  the  door  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne's  room,  arrayed  in  the  white  crepe  gown 
with  the  touches  of  pale  green  and  vivid  black 
that  Eleanor  had  designed  for  her.  Its  flowing 
elegance  made  her  positively  a  stranger  to  her- 
self. The  two  maids  moreover  who  had  attired 
her  had  been  intent  upon  a  complete,  an  indis- 
putable perfection.  Her  hat  had  been  carried 
off  and  retrimmed,  her  iv^hite  gloves,  her  dainty 
parasol,  the  bunch  of  roses  at  her  belt — every- 
thing had  been  thought  for;  she  had  been  al- 
lowed a  voice  in  nothing.  And  the  result  was 
extraordinary.  The  day  before  she  had  been 
still  a  mere  fresh-cheeked  illustration  of  those 
"moeurs  de  province"  which  are  to  be  found  all 
over  the  world,  in  Burgundy  and  Yorkshire  no 
less  and  no  more  than  in  Vermont ;  to-day  she 
had  become  what  others  copy,  the  best  of  its 
kind — the  "  fleeting  flower  "  that  "  blooms  for 
one  day  at  the  summit " — as  the  maids  would  nc 
159 


doubt  have  expressed  themselves,  had  they  been 
acquainted  with  the  works  of  Mr.  Clough. 

And  thanks  to  that  pliancy  of  her  race,  which 
Miss  Manisty  had  discovered,  although  she  was 
shy  in  these  new  trappings,  she  was  not  awkward. 
She  was  assimilating  her  new  frocks,  as  she  had 
already  assimilated  so  many  other  things,  during 
her  weeks  at  the  villa  —  points  of  manner,  of 
speech,  of  mental  perspective.  Unconsciously  she 
copied  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  movements  and  voice;  she 
was  learning  to  understand  Manisty's  paradoxes, 
and  Aunt  Pattie's  small  weaknesses.  She  was 
less  raw,  evidently  ;  yet  not  less  individual.  Her 
provincialisms  were  dropping  away  ;  her  charac- 
ter, perhaps,  was  only  emerging. 

"  Are  you  pleased  with  it  ?"  she  said  timidly, 
as  Mrs.  Burgoyne  bade  her  come  in,  and  she  ad- 
vanced towards  that  lady,  who  was  putting  on 
her  own  hat  before  the  glass. 

Eleanor,  with  uplifted  arms,  turned  and  smiled. 

"  Charming  !  You  do  one  credit !  —  Is  Aunt 
Pattie  better  ?" 

Lucy  was  conscious  of  a  momentary  chill. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  been  so  kind  and  friendly 
during  the  whole  planning  and  making  of  this 
dress,  the  girl,  perhaps,  had  inevitably  expected 
a  keener  interest  in  its  completion. 

She  answered  in  some  discomfort : — 

"I  am  afraid  Miss  Manisty's  not  coming.  I 
saw  Benson  just  now.  Her  headache  is  still  sc 
bad." 

"Ahr  —  said  Eleanor,  absently,  rummaging 
i6o 


among  her  gloves  ;  "this  sirocco  weather  doesn't 
suit  her." 

Lucy  fidgeted  a  little  as  she  stood  by  the 
dressing-table,  took  up  one  knick-knack  after 
another  and  put  it  down.     At  last  she  said — 

"  Do  you  mind  my  asking  you  a  question  ?" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  turned  in  surprise. 

"  By  all  means  !— What  can  I  do  ?" 

**  Do  you  mind  telling  me  whether  you  think 
I  ought  to  stay  on  here?  Miss  Manisty  is  so 
kind  —  she  wants  me  to  stay  till  you  leave,  and 
then  go  to  Vallombrosa  with  you — next  month. 
But -" 

"Why  *but'?" — said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  briskly, 
still  in  quest  of  rings,  handkerchief,  and  fan, — 
**  unless  you  are  quite  tired  of  us." 

The  girl  smiled.  "  I  couldn't  be  that.  But— I 
think  you'll  be  tired  of  me  !  And  I've  heard 
from  the  Porters  of  a  quiet  pension  in  Florence, 
where  some  friends  of  theirs  will  be  staying  till 
the  middle  of  June.  They  would  let  me  join 
them,  till  the  Porters  are  ready  for  me." 

There  was  just  a  moment's  pause  before  Elea- 
nor said — 

**Aunt  Pattie  would  be  very  sorry  I  know 
she  counts  on  your  going  with  her  to  Val- 
lombrosa. I  must  go  home  by  the  beginning 
of  June,  and  I  believe  Mr.  Manisty  goes  to 
Paris." 

"And  the  book?"  Lucy  could  not  help  saying, 
and  then  wished  vehemently  that  she  had  left  the 
question  alone. 

i6i 


"  I  don't  understand  " — said  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
stooping  to  look  for  her  walking-shoes. 

"  I  didn't — I  didn't  know  whether  it  was  still 
to  be  finished  by  the  summer  ?" 

"  No  one  knows, — certainly  not  the  author  ! 
But  it  doesn't  concern  me  in  the  least." 

"  How  can  it  be  finished  without  you  ?"  said 
Lucy  wondering.  Again  she  could  not  restrain 
the  spirit  of  eager  championship  which  had  arisen 
in  her  mind  of  late ;  though  she  was  tremulously 
uncertain  as  to  how  far  she  might  express  it. 

Certainly  Mrs.  Burgoyne  showed  a  slight  stif- 
fening of  manner. 

"  It  will  have  to  get  finished  without  me,  Fm 
afraid.  Luckily  I'm  not  wanted ;  but  if  I  were, 
I  shall  have  no  time  for  anything  but  my  father 
this  summer.** 

Lucy  was  silent.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  finished  tying 
her  shoes,  then  rose,  and  said  lightly — 

"  Besides — poor  book  !  It  wanted  a  change 
badly.  So  did  I.^ — Now  Mr.  Neal  will  see  it 
through." 

Lucy  went  to  say  good-bye  to  Aunt  Pattie  be- 
fore starting.  Eleanor,  left  alone,  stood  a  mo- 
ment, thoughtful,  beside  the  dressing-table. 

"  She  is  sorry  for  me  !"  she  said  to  herself,  with 
a  sudden,  passionate  movement. 

This  was  the  Nemi  day — the  day  of  festival, 

planned  a  fortnight  before,  to  celebrate  the  end, 

the  happy  end  of  the  book.     It  was  to  have  bten 

Eleanor's  special  day — the  sign  and  seal  of  that 

i6a 


good  fortune  she  had  brought  her  cousin  and  his 
work. 

And  now  ? — Why  were  they  going  ?  Eleanor 
hardly  knew.  She  had  tried  to  stop  it.  But 
Reggie  Brooklyn  had  been  asked,  and  the  am- 
bassador's daughter.  And  Vanbrugh  Neal  had 
a  fancy  to  see  Nemi.  Manisty,  who  had  forgot- 
ten all  that  the  day  was  once  to  signify,  had  re- 
signed himself  to  the  expedition — he  who  hated 
expeditions  ! — "  because  Neal  wanted  it."  There 
had  not  been  a  word  said  about  it  during  the 
last  few  days  that  had  not  brought  gall  and 
wound  to  Eleanor.  She,  who  thought  she  knew 
all  that  male  selfishness  was  capable  of,  was  yet 
surprised  and  pricked  anew,  hour  after  hour,  by 
Manisty's  casual  sayings  and  assumptions. 

It  was  like  some  gourd-growth  in  the  night — 
the  rise  of  this  entangling  barrier  between  her- 
self and  him.  She  knew  that  some  of  it  came 
from  those  secret  superstitions  and  fancies  about 
himself  and  his  work  which  she  had  often  de- 
tected in  him.  If  a  companion  or  a  place,  even 
a  particular  table  or  pen  had  brought  him  luck, 
he  would  recur  to  them  and  repeat  them  with 
eagerness.  But  once  prove  to  him  the  contrary, 
and  she  had  seen  him  drop  friend  and  pen  with 
equal  decision. 

And  as  far  as  she  could  gather — as  far  as  he 
would  discuss  the  matter  at  all — it  was  precisely 
with  regard  to  those  portions  of  the  book  where 
her  influence  upon  it  had  been  strongest,  that  the 
difficult:es  put  forward  by  Mr.  Neal  had  arisen. 
163 


Her  lip  quivered.  She  had  little  or  no  per- 
sonal  conceit.  Very  likely  Mr.  Neal's  criticisms 
were  altogether  just,  and  she  had  counselled 
wrongly.  When  she  thought  of  the  old  days  o£ 
happy  consultation,  of  that  vibrating  sympathy 
of  thought  which  had  arisen  between  them,  glo- 
rifying the  winter  days  in  Rome,  of  the  thousand 
signs  in  him  of  a  deep,  personal  gratitude  and 
affection — 

Vanished  ! — vanished  !  The  soreness  of  heart 
she  carried  about  with  her,  proudly  concealed, 
had  the  gnawing  constancy  of  physical  pain. 
While  he  !— Nothing  seemed  to  her  more  amaz- 
ing than  the  lapses  in  mere  gentlemanliness  that 
Manisty  could  allow  himself.  He  was  capable 
on  occasion  of  all  that  was  most  refined  and  ten- 
der in  feeling.  But  once  jar  that  central  egotism 
of  his,  and  he  could  behave  incredibly  !  Through 
the  small  actions  and  omissions  of  every  day,  he 
could  express,  if  he  chose,  a  hardness  of  soul  be- 
fore which  the  woman  shuddered. 

Did  he  in  truth  mean  her  to  understand,  not 
only  that  she  had  been  an  intruder,  and  an  un- 
lucky one,  upon  his  work  and  his  intellectual  lite, 
but  that  any  dearer  hopes  she  might  have  based 
upon  their  comradeship  were  to  be  once  for  all 
abandoned  !  She  stood  there,  lost  in  a  sudden 
tumult  of  passionate  pride  and  misery,  which  was 
crossed  every  now  and  then  by  a  strange  and  bit- 
ter wonder. 

Each  of  us  carries  about  with  him  a  certain 
mental  image  of  himself — -typical,  characteristic 
164 


— as  we  suppose ;  draped  at  any  rate  to  our 
fancy ;  round  which  we  group  the  incident  of 
life.  Eleanor  saw  herself  always  as  the  proud 
woman  ;  it  is  a  guise  in  which  we  are  none  of  us 
loath  to  masquerade.  Haughtily  dumb  and  pa- 
tient during  her  married  years  ;  proud  morally, 
socially,  intellectually ;  finding  in  this  stiffening 
of  the  self  her  only  defence  against  the  ugly 
realities  of  daily  life.  Proud  too  in  her  loneliness 
and  grief — proud  of  her  very  grief,  of  her  very 
capacity  for  suffering,  of  all  the  delicate  shades 
of  thought  and  sorrow  which  furnished  the  mat- 
ter of  her  secret  life,  lived  without  a  sign  beside 
the  old  father  whose  coarser  and  commoner  pride 
took  such  small  account  of  hers  ! 

And  now — she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  already 
drinking  humiliation,  and  foreseeing  ever  deeper 
draughts  of  it  to  come.  She,  who  had  never  begged 
for  anything,  was  in  the  mood  to  see  her  whole 
existence  as  a  refused  petition,  a  rejected  gift. 
She  had  offered  Edward  Manisty  her  all  of  sym- 
pathy and  intelligence,  and  he  was  throwing  it 
back  lightly,  inexorably  upon  her  hands.  Her 
thin  cheek  burned  ;  but  it  was  the  truth.  She 
annoyed  and  wearied  him  ;  and  he  had  shaken 
her  off ;  her,  Eleanor  Burgoyne !  She  did  not 
know  herself.  Her  inmost  sense  of  identity  was 
shaken. 

She  leaned  her  head  an   instant  against  the 

frame  of  the  open  window,  closing  her  tired  eyes 

upon  the  great  Campagna  below  her.     A  surge 

of  rebellious  will  passed  through  her.     Always 

i6s 


submission,  patience,  silence, — till  now!  But 
there  are  moments  when  a  woman  must  rouse 
herself,  and  fight  —  must  not  accept,  but  make, 
her  fate. 

Jealous  !  Was  that  last  heat  and  ignominy  of 
the  soul  to  be  hers  too  ?  She  was  to  find  it  a 
threat  and  offence  that  he  should  spend  some  of 
the  evenings  that  now  went  so  heavily,  talking 
with  this  girl, — this  nice  simple  girl,  whom  she 
had  herself  bade  him  cultivate,  whom  she  had 
herself  brought  into  notice,  rubbing  off  her  an- 
gles, drilling  her  into  beauty  ?  The  very  notion 
was  madness  and  absurdity.  It  degraded  her  in 
her  own  eyes.  It  was  the  measure  of  her  own 
self  -  ignorance.  She  —  resign  him  at  the  first 
threat  of  another  claim  !  The  passionate  life 
of  her  own  heart  amazed  and  stunned  her. 

The  clock  in  the  salon  struck.  She  started, 
and  went  to  straighten  her  veil  at  the  glass. 
What  would  the  afternoon  bring  her  ?  Some- 
thing it  should  bring  her.  The  Nemi  days  of  the 
winter  were  shrined  in  memory — each  with  its 
halo.  Let  her  put  out  her  full  strength  again, 
and  now,  before  it  was  too  late — before  he  had 
slipped  too  far  away  from  her. 

The  poor  heart  beat  hotly  against  the  lace  of 
her  dress.  What  did  she  intend  or  hope  for? 
She  only  knew  that  this  might  be  one  of  her  last 
chances  with  him — that  the  days  were  running 
out — and  the  moment  of  separation  approached. 
Her  whole  nature  was  athirst,  desperately  athirst . 
for  she  knew  not  what.  Yet  somethin^j  told  her 
i66 


that  among  these  ups  and  downs  of  daily  temper 
and  fortune  there  lay  strewn  for  her  the  last 
chances  of  her  life. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  will  you  go  in  for  a  moment 
to  Miss  Manisty  ?" 

The  voice  was  Benson's,  who  had  waylaid  Mrs, 
Burgoyne  in  the  salon. 

Eleanor  obeyed. 

From  the  shadows  of  her  dark  room  Aunt 
Pattie  raised  a  wan  face. 

"  Eleanor  ! — what  do  you  think?" — 

Eleanor  ran  to  her.  Miss  Manisty  handed  her 
a  telegram  which  read  as  follows — 

"  Your  letter  arrived  too  late  to  alter  arrange- 
ments. Coming  to-morrow — two  or  three  nights 
— discuss  plans. — Alice." 

Eleanor  let  her  hand  drop,  and  the  two  ladies 
looked  at  each  other  in  dismay. 

"But  you  told  her  you  couldn't  receive  her 
here?" 

"  Several  times  over.  Edward  will  be  in  de- 
spair. How  are  we  to  have  her  here  with  Miss 
Foster  ?  Her  behavior  the  last  two  months  has 
been  too  extraordinary." 

Aunt  Pattie  fell  back  a  languid  little  heap 
upon  her  pillows.  Eleanor  looked  almost  equal- 
ly disconcerted.     "  Have  you  told  Edward  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Aunt  Pattie  miserably,  raising  a 
hand  to  her  aching  head,  as  though  to  excuse  her 
lack  of  courage. 

167 


"  Shall  I  tell  him  ?" 

"  It's  too  bad  to  put  such  things  on  you." 

"  No,  not  at  all.  But  I  won't  tell  him  now 
It  would  spoil  the  day.  Some  time  before  the 
evening." 

Aunt  Pattie  showed  an  aspect  of  relief. 

"  Do  whatever  you  think  best.  It's  very  good 
of  you " 

"  Not  at  all.  Dear  Aunt  Pattie !— lie  still.  By- 
the-way — has  she  any  one  with  her  ?" 

"  Only  her  maid — the  one  person  who  can  man. 
age  her  at  all.  That  poor  lady,  you  know,  who 
tried  to  be  companion,  gave  it  up  some  time  ago. 
Where  shall  we  put  her  ?" 

"  There  are  the  two  east  rooms.  Shall  I  tell 
Andreina  to  get  them  ready  ?" 

Aunt  Pattie  acquiesced,  with  a  sound  rather 
like  a  groan. 

"There  is  no  chance  still  of  stopping  her?" 
said  Eleanor,  moving  away. 

"  The  telegram  gives  no  address  but  Orte  sta- 
tion," said  Aunt  Pattie  wearily  ;  "  she  must  have 
sent  it  on  her  journey." 

"  Then  we  must  be  prepared.  Don't  fret — dear 
Aunt  Pattie  !— we'll  help  you  through." 

Eleanor  stood  a  moment  in  the  salon,  thinking. 

Unlucky !  Manisty's  eccentric  and  unmanage- 
able sister  had  been  for  many  years  the  secret 
burden  of  his  life  and  Aunt  Pattie's.  Eleanor 
had  been  a  witness  of  the  annoyance  and  depres- 
sion with  which  he  had  learned  during  the  winter 
that  she  was  in  Italy.  She  knew  something  of 
i68 


the  efforts  that  had  been  made  to  keep  her  away 
from  the  villa. — 

He  would  be  furiously  helpless  and  miserable 
under  the  infliction. — Somehow,  her  spirits  rose.— 

She  went  to  the  door  of  the  salon,  and  heard 
the  carriage  drive  up  that  was  to  take  them  to 
Nemi.  Across  Manisty's  room,  she  saw  himself 
on  the  balcony  lounging  and  smoking  till  the 
ladies  should  appear.  The  blue  lake  with  its 
green  shores  sparkled  beyond  him.  The  day  was 
brightening.     Certainly — let  the  bad  news  wait ! 

As  they  drove  along  the  Galleria  di  Sotto,  Man- 
isty  seemed  to  be  preoccupied.  The  carriage  had 
interrupted  him  in  the  midst  of  reading  a  long 
letter  which  he  still  held  crumpled  in  his  hand. 

At  last  he  said  abruptly  to  Eleanor — "  Benecke's 
last  chance  is  up.  He  is  summoned  to  submit 
next  week  at  latest." 

"He  tells  you  so?" 

"  Yes.     He  writes  me  a  heart-broken  letter." 

"  Poor,  poor  fellow  !  It's  all  the  Jesuits'  doing. 
Mr.  Neal  told  me  the  whole  story." 

"  Oh  !  it's  tyranny  of  course.  And  the  book's 
only  a  fraction  of  the  truth, — a  little  Darwinian 
yeast  leavening  a  lump  of  theology.  But  they're 
quite  right.     They  can't  help  it." 

Eleanor  looked  at  Lucy  Foster  and  laughed. 

"  Dangerous  to  say  those  things  before  Miss 
Foster." 

"  Does  Miss  Foster  know  anything  about  it  ?" 
— he  said  coolly. 

G  169 


JLucy    hastily    disclaimed   any    knowledge    of 
Father  Benecke  and  his  affairs. 

"  They're  very  simple  " — said  Manisty.  **  Fathei 
Benecke  is  a  priest,  but  also  a  professor  He 
published  last  year  a  rather  liberal  book — very 
mildly  liberal  —  some  evolution  —  some  Biblical 
criticism — just  a  touch  !  And  a  good  deal  of  pro- 
test against  the  way  in  which  the  Jesuits  are 
ruining  Catholic  University  education  in  Ger- 
many. Lord !  more  than  enough.  They  put  his 
book  on  the  Index  within  a  month ;  he  has  had 
a  year's  grace  to  submit  in ;  and  now,  if  the 
submission  is  not  made  within  a  week  or  so,  he 
will  be  first  suspended,  and  then  —  excommuni 
cated." 

"  Who's  *  they  '?"  said  Lucy. 

"  Oh !  the  Congregation  of  the  Index — or  the 
people  who  set  them  on." 

"Is  the  book  a  bad  book?" 

"  Quite  the  contrary." 

"And  you're  pleased?" 

"  I  think  the  Papacy  is  keeping  up  discipline — 
and  is  not  likely  to  go  under  just  yet." 

He  turned  to  her  with  his  teasing  laugh  and 
was  suddenly  conscious  of  her  new  elegance 
Where  was  the  *'  Sunday-school  teacher  "  ?  Trans 
formed ! — in  five  weeks — into  this  vision  that  was 
sitting  opposite  to  him  ?  Really,  women  were  too 
wonderful !  His  male  sense  felt  a  kind  of  scorn 
for  the  plasticity  of  the  sex. 

"  He  has  asked  your  opinion  ?"  said  Lucy,  pur- 
suing the  subject. 

170 


*'  Yes.  I  told  him  the  book  was  excellent — and 
his  condemnation  certain.'" 

Lucy  bit  her  lip. 

"Who  did  it r 

"The  Jesuits— probably.** 

"And  you  defend  them?" 

"Of  course! — They're  the  only  gentlemen  in 
Europe  who  thoroughly  understand  their  own 
business." 

"What  a  business !"  said  Lucy,  breathing  quick. 
— "  To  rush  on  every  little  bit  of  truth  they  see 
and  stamp  it  out !" 

"  Like  any  other  dangerous  firework, — your 
simile  is  excellent." 

"  Dangerous !"  She  threw  back  her  head. — 
"  To  the  blind  and  the  cripples." 

"Who  are  the  larger  half  of  mankind.  Pre- 
cisely." 

She  hesitated,  then  could  not  restrain  herself. 

"  But  you're  not  concerned?" 

"  I  ?  Oh  dear  no.  I  can  be  trusted  with  fire- 
works.    Besides  Tm  not  a  Catholic." 

"  Is  that  fair  ? — to  stand  outside  slavery — and 
praise  it?" 

"Why  not? — if  it  suits  my  purpose?" 

The  girl  was  silent.  Manisty  glanced  at  Elea- 
nor; she  caught  the  mischievous  laugh  in  his 
eyes,  and  lightly  returned  it.  It  was  his  old  com- 
rade's look,  come  back.  A  warmer,  more  vital 
life  stirred  suddenly  through  all  her  veins ;  the 
slight  and  languid  figure  drew  itself  erect ;  her 
senses  told  her,  hurriedly,  for  the  first  time  that 
171 


the  May  sun,  the  rapidly  freshening  air,  and  the 
quick  movement  of  the  carriage  were  all  physic 
cally  delightful. 

How  fast,  indeed,  the  spring  was  conquering 
the  hills !  As  they  passed  over  the  great  viaduct 
at  Aricia,  the  thick  Chigi  woods  to  the  left  masked 
the  deep  ravine  in  torrents  of  lightest  foamiest 
green ;  and  over  the  vast  plain  to  the  right, 
stretching  to  Ardea,  Lanuvium  and  the  sea,  the 
power  of  the  reawakening  earth,  like  a  shuttle  in 
the  loom,  was  weaving  day  by  day  its  web  of 
color  and  growth,  the  ever-brightening  pattern 
of  crop,  and  grass  and  vine.  The  beggars  tor- 
mented them  on  the  approach  to  Genzano,  as 
they  tormented  of  old  Horace  and  Maecenas; 
and  presently  the  long  falling  street  of  the  town, 
with  its  multitudes  of  short,  wiry,  brown-faced 
folk,  its  clatter  of  children  and  mules,  its  barbers 
and  wine  shops,  brought  them  in  sight  again  of 
the  emerald -green  Campagna,  and  the  shiny 
hazes  over  the  sea.  In  front  rose  the  tower- 
topped  hill  of  Monte  Giove,  marking  the  site  of 
Corioli;  and  just  as  they  turned  towards  Nemi 
the  Appian  Way  ran  across  their  path.  Over- 
head, a  marvellous  sky  with  scudding  veils  of 
white  cloud.  The  blur  and  blight  of  the  sirocco 
had  vanished  without  rain,  under  a  change  of 
wind.  An  all-blessing,  all-penetrating  sun  poured 
upon  the  stirring  earth.  Everywhere  fragments 
and  ruins — ghosts  of  the  great  past — yet  engulfed, 
as  it  were,  and  engarlanded  by  the  active  and 
fertile  present. 

172 


And  now  they  were  to  follow  the  high  ridge 
above  the  deep-sunk  lake,  towards  Nemi  on  its 
farther  side— Nemi  with  its  Orsini  tower,  grim 
and  tall,  rising  on  its  fortress  rock,  high  over  the 
lake,  and  what  was  once  the  thick  grove  or  **Ne- 
mus"  of  the  goddess,  mantling  the  proud  white 
of  her  inviolate  temple. 

"  Look  !" — said  Eleanor,  touching  Lucy's  hand. 
"There's  the  niched  wall — and  the  platform  of 
the  temple." 

And  Lucy,  bendmg  eager  brows,  saw  across  the 
lake  a  line  of  great  recesses,  overgrown  and  shad- 
owy against  the  steep  slopes  or  cliffs  of  the  crater, 
and  in  front  of  them  a  flat  space,  with  one  farm- 
shed  upon  it. 

In  the  crater-wall,  just  behind  and  above  the 
temple-site,  was  a  black  vertical  cleft.  Eleanor 
pointed  it  out  to  Manisty. 

"  Do  you  remember  we  never  explored  it?  But 
the  spring  must  be  there?— Egeria's  spring?" 

Manisty  lazily  said  he  didn't  know. 

*'  Don't  imagine  you  will  be  let  off,"  said  Elea- 
nor, laughing.  "  We  have  settled  every  other 
point  at  Nemi.  This  is  left  for  to-day.  It  will 
make  a  scramble  after  tea." 

"  You  will  find  it  farther  than  you  think,"  said 
Manisty,  measuring  the  distance. 

"  So  it  was  somewhere  on  that  terrace  he  died 
—  poor  priest !" — said  Lucy,  musing. 

Manisty,  who  was  walking  beside  the  carriage, 
turned  towards  her.  Her  little  speech  flattered 
him.     But  he  laughed. 

173 


<( 


I  wonder  how  much  it  was  worth — that  place 
— in  hard  cash,"  he  said,  dryly.  "  No  doubt  that 
was  the  secret  of  it." 

Lucy  smiled — unwillingly.  They  were  mount- 
ing a  charming  road  high  above  the  lake.  Stretch- 
ing between  them  and  the  lake  were  steep  olive 
gardens  and  vineyards;  above  them  light  half- 
fledged  woods  climbed  to  the  sky.  In  the  vine- 
yards the  fresh  red-brown  earth  shone  amid  the 
endless  regiments  of  vines,  just  breaking  into 
leaf ;  daisies  glittered  under  the  olives  ;  and  be- 
low, on  a  midway  crag,  a  great  wild-cherry,  sun- 
touched,  flung  its  boughs  and  blossoms,  a  dazzling 
pearly  glory,  over  the  dark -blue  hollow  of  the 
lake. 

And  on  the  farther  side,  the  high,  scooped-out 
wall  of  the  crater  rose  rich  and  dark  above  the 
temple-site.  How  white — white — it  must  have 
shone!  —  thought  Lucy.  Her  imagination  had 
been  caught  by  the  priest's  story.  She  saw  Nemi 
for  the  first  time  as  one  who  had  seen  it  before. 
Timidly  she  looked  at  the  man  walking  beside 
the  carriage.  Strange !  She  no  longer  disliked 
him  as  she  had  done,  no  longer  felt  it  impossible 
that  he  should  have  written  the  earlier  book 
which  had  been  so  dear  to  her.  Was  it  that  she 
had  seen  him  chastened  and  depressed  of  late — 
had  realized  the  comparative  harmlessness  of  his 
vanity,  the  kindness  and  docility  he  could  show 
to  a  friend?  Ah  no! — if  he  had  been  kind  for 
one  friend,  he  had  been  difficult  and  ungrateful 
for  another.  The  thinness  of  Eleanor's  cheek, 
174 


the  hollowness  of  her  blue  eye  accused  him.  But 
even  here  the  girl's  inner  mind  had  begun  to 
doubt  and  demur.  After  all  did  she  know  much 
— or  anything — of  their  real  relation  ? 

Certainly  this  afternoon  he  was  a  delightful 
companion.  That  phrase  which  Vanbrugh  Neal 
had  applied  to  him  in  Lucy's  hearing,  which  had 
seemed  to  her  so  absurd,  began  after  all  to  fit. 
He  was  bon  enfant  both  to  Eleanor  and  to  her  on 
this  golden  afternoon.  He  remembered  Eleanor's 
love  for  broom  and  brought  her  bunches  of  it 
from  the  steep  banks  ;  he  made  affectionate  mock 
of  Neal's  old  -  maidish  ways ;  he  threw  himself 
with  ejaculations,  joyous,  paradoxical,  violent,  on 
the  unfolding  beauty  of  the  lake  and  the  spring; 
and  throughout  he  made  them  feel  his  presence 
as  something  warmly  strong  and  human,  for  all 
his  provoking  defects,  and  that  element  of  the 
uncommunicated  and  unexplained  which  was  al- 
ways to  be  felt  in  him.  Eleanor  began  to  look 
happier  and  younger  than  she  had  looked  for 
days.  And  Lucy  wondered  why  the  long  ascent 
to  Nemi  was  so  delightful ;  why  the  sirocco 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  the  air,  leaving  so 
purpureal  and  divine  a  light  on  mountain  and 
lake  and  distance. 

When  they  arrived  at  Nemi,  Manisty  as  usual 
showed  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  practical  ar- 
rangements of  the  day,  which  were  always  made 
for  him  by  other  people. 

*'  What  am  I  to  do  with  these?"  he  said,  tbrow- 
175 


ing  his  hands  in  despair  towards  the  tea-baskets 
in  the  carriage. — "We  can't  drive  beyond  this — 
And  how  are  we  to  meet  the  others? — when  do 
they  come? — why  aren't  they  here?" 

He  turned  with  peremptory  impatience  to 
Eleanor.  She  laid  a  calming  hand  upon  his  arm, 
pointing  to  the  crowd  of  peasant  folk  from  the 
little  town  that  had  already  gathered  round  the 
carriage. 

"  Get  two  of  those  boys  to  carry  the  baskets. 
We  are  to  meet  the  others  at  the  temple.  They 
come  by  the  path  from  Genzano." 

Manisty's  brow  cleared  at  once  like  a  child's. 
He  went  into  the  crowd,  chattering  his  easy  Ital- 
ian, and  laid  hands  on  two  boys,  one  of  whom  was 
straight  and  lithe  and  handsome  as  a  young 
Bacchus,  and  bore  the  noble  name  of  Aristo- 
demo.  Then,  followed  by  a  horde  of  begging 
children  which  had  to  be  shaken  off  by  degrees, 
they  began  the  descent  of  the  steep  cliff  on  which 
Nemi  stands.  The  path  zigzagged  downward, 
and  as  they  followed  it,  they  came  upon  files  of 
peasant  women  ascending,  all  bearing  on  their 
kerchiefed  heads  great  flat  baskets  of  those  small 
wood-strawberries,  or  fragole^  which  are  the  chief 
crop  of  Nemi  and  its  fields. 

The  handsome  women,  the  splendid  red  of  the 
fruit  and  the  scent  which  it  shed  along  the  path, 
the  rich  May  light  upon  the  fertile  earth  and  its 
spray  of  leaf  and  blossom,  the  sense  of  growth 
and  ferment  and  pushing  life  everywhere — these 
things  made  Lucy's  spirits  dance  within  her 
176 


She  hung  back  with  the  two  boys,  shyly  practis- 
ing her  Italian  upon  them,  while  Eleanor  and 
Manisty  walked  ahead. 

But  Manisty  did  not  forget  her.  Half-way 
down  the  path,  he  turned  back  to  look  at  her, 
and  saw  that  she  was  carrying  a  light  waterproof, 
which  Aunt  Pattie  had  forced  upon  her  lest  the 
sirocco  should  end  in  rain.  He  stopped  and  de- 
manded it.     Lucy  resisted. 

"  I  can  carry  that,"  he  urged  impatiently  ;  "  it 
isn't  baskets." 

"  You  could  carry  those,"  she  said  laughing. 

"  Not  in  a  world  that  grows  boys  and  sixpences. 
But  I  want  that  cloak.     Please  !" 

The  tone  was  imperious  and  she  yielded.  He 
hurried  on  to  join  Eleanor,  carrying  the  cloak 
with  his  usual  awkwardness,  and  often  trailing  it 
in  the  dust.  Lucy,  who  was  very  neat  and  pre- 
cise in  all  her  personal  ways,  suffered  at  the  sight, 
and  wished  she  had  stood  firm.  But  to  be  waited 
on  and  remembered  by  him  was  not  a  disagree- 
able experience  ;  perhaps  because  it  was  still  such 
a  new  and  surprising  one. 

Presently  they  were  on  the  level  of  the  lake, 
and  their  boys  guided  them  through  a  narrow 
and  stony  by-path,  to  the  site  of  the  temple, 
or  as  the  peasant  calls  it  the  "Giardino  del 
Lago." 

It  is  a  flat  oblong  space,  with  a  two-storied 

farm  building — part  of  it  showing  brick-work  of 

the  early  Empire — standing  upon  it.     To  north 

and  east  runs  the  niched  wall  in  which,  deep  un- 

-     177 


der  accumulations  of  soil,  Lord  Savile  found  the 
great  Tiberius,  and  those  lost  portrait  busts  which 
had  been  waiting  there  through  the  centuries  till 
the  pick  and  spade  of  an  Englishman  should  re- 
lease them.  As  to  the  temple  walls  which  the 
English  lord  uncovered,  the  trenches  that  he 
dug,  and  the  sacrificial  altar  that  he  laid  bare — 
the  land,  their  best  guardian,  has  taken  them  back 
into  itself.  The  strawberries  grow  all  over  them  ; 
only  strange  billows  and  depressions  in  the  soil 
make  the  visitor  pause  and  wonder.  The  earth 
seems  to  say  to  him — "  Here  indeed  are  secrets 
and  treasures  —  but  not  for  you !  I  have  been 
robbed  enough.  The  dead  are  mine.  Leave 
them  in  my  breast.  And  you ! — go  your  ways 
in  the  sun !" 

They  made  their  way  across  the  strawberry- 
fields,  looking  for  the  friends  who  were  to  join 
them — Reggie  Brooklyn,  Mr.  Neal,  and  the  two 
ladies.  There  was  no  sign  of  them  whatever. 
Yet,  according  to  time  and  trains,  they  should 
have  been  on  the  spot,  waiting. 

"Annoying!"  said  Manisty,  with  his  ready  ir- 
ritability. "Reggie  might  really  have  managed 
better.— Who's  this  fellow?" 

It  was  the  padrone  or  tenant  of  the  Giardino, 
who  came  up  and  parleyed  with  them.  Yes, 
"Vostra  Eccellenza"  might  put  down  their  bas- 
kets and  make  their  tea.  He  pointed  to  a  bench 
behind  the  shed.  The  forestieri  came  every  day  ; 
he  turned  away  in  indifference. 

Meanwhile  the  girls  and  women  gathering 
178 


among  the  strawberries,  raised  themselves  to 
look  at  the  party,  flashing  their  white  teeth  at 
Aristodemo,  who  was  evidently  a  wit  among 
them.  They  flung  him  gibes  as  he  passed,  to 
which  he  replied  disdainfully.  A  group  of  girls 
who  had  been  singing  together,  turned  round 
upon  him,  "chaffing"  him  with  shrill  voices  and 
outstretched  necks,  like  a  flock  of  young  cackling 
geese,  while  he,  holding  himself  erect,  threw  them 
back  flinty  words  and  glances,  hitting  at  every 
stroke,  striding  past  them  with  the  port  of  a 
young  king.  Then  they  broke  into  a  song  which 
they  could  hardly  sing  for  laughing — about  a 
lover  who  had  been  jilted  by  his  mistress.  Aris- 
todenio  turned  a  deaf  ear,  but  the  mocking  song, 
sung  by  the  harsh  Italian  voices,  seemed  to  fill 
the  hollow  of  the  lake  and  echoed  from  the  steep 
side  of  the  crater.  The  afternoon  sun,  striking 
from  the  ridge  of  Genzano,  filled  the  rich  tangled 
cup,  and  threw  its  shafts  into  the  hollows  of  the 
temple  wall.  Lucy  standing  still  under  the  heat 
and  looking  round  her,  felt  herself  steeped  and 
bathed  in  Italy.  Her  New  England  reserve 
betrayed  almost  nothing ;  but  underneath,  there 
was  a  young  passionate  heart,  thrilling  to  nature 
and  the  spring,  conscious  too  of  a  sort  of  fate  in 
these  delicious  hours,  that  were  so  much  sharper 
and  full  of  meaning  than  any  her  small  experience 
had  yet  known. 

She  walked  on  to  look  at  the  niched  wall,  while 
Manisty  and  Eleanor  parleyed  with  Aristodemo 
as  to  the  guardianship  of  the  tea.     Presently  she 
179 


heard  their  steps  behind  her,  and  she  turned  back 
to  them  eagerly. 

"The  boy  was  in  that  tree!" — she  said  to 
Manisty,  pointing  to  a  great  olive  that  flung  its 
branches  over  a  mass  of  ruin,  which  must  once 
have  formed  part  of  an  outer  enclosure  wall  be- 
yond the  statued  recesses. 

"  Was  he?"  said  Manisty,  surprised  into  a  smile. 
"You  know  best. — You  are  very  kind  to  that 
nonsense." 

She  hesitated. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  you  don't  know  why  I  liked 
it  so  particularly.  It  reminded  me  of  things  in 
your  other  book." 

"  The  *  Letters  from  Palestine '  ?"  said  Manisty, 
half  amused,  half  astonished. 

"  I  suppose  you  wonder  I  should  have  seen  it  ? 
But  we  read  a  great  deal  in  my  country !  All 
sorts  of  people  read — men  and  women  who  do 
the  roughest  work  with  their  hands,  and  never 
spend  a  cent  on  themselves  they  can  help.  Uncle 
Ben  gave  it  me.  There  was  a  review  of  it  in  the 
'  Springfield  Republican  * — I  guess  they  will  have 
sent  it  you.  But" — her  voice  took  a  shy  note — 
"do  you  remember  that  piece  about  the  wedding 
feast  at  Cana — where  you  imagined  the  people 
going  home  afterwards  over  the  hill-paths — how 
they  talked,  and  what  they  felt  ?" 

"I  remember  something  of  the  sort,"  said  Man- 
isty— "  I  wrote  it  at  Nazareth — in  the  spring.  I'm 
sure  it  was  bad  !" 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  say  that  ?"  She  knit 
i8o 


her  brows  a  little.  "If  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  seemed 
to  be  walking  with  them.  And  so  with  your 
goat-herd.  I'm  certain  it  was  that  tree !"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  tree,  her  bright  smile  break- 
ing. "And  the  grove  was  here. — And  the  people 
came  running  down  from  the  village  on  the  cliff," 
— she  turned  her  hand  towards  Nemi. 

Manisty  was  flattered  again,  all  the  more  be- 
cause the  girl  had  evidently  no  intention  of  flat- 
tery whatever,  but  was  simply  following  the  pleas- 
ure of  her  own  thought.  He  strolled  on  beside 
her,  poking  into  the  niches,  and  talking,  as  the 
whim  took  him,  pouring  out  upon  her  indeed 
some  of  the  many  thoughts  and  fancies  which 
had  been  generated  in  him  by  those  winter  visits 
to  Nemi  that  he  and  Eleanor  had  made  together. 

Eleanor  loitered  behind,  looking  at  the  straw- 
berry gatherers. 

"The  next  train  should  bring  them  here  in 
about  an  hour,"  she  thought  to  herself  in  great 
flatness  of  spirit.     "  How  stupid  of  Reggie  !" 

Then  as  she  lifted  her  eyes,  they  fell  upon 
Manisty  and  Lucy,  strolling  along  the  wall  to- 
gether, he  talking,  she  turning  her  brilliant 
young  face  towards  him,  her  white  dress  shining 
in  the  sun. 

A  thought — a  perception — thrust  itself  like  a 
lance-point  through  Eleanor's  mind. — She  gave 
an  inward  cry — a  cry  of  misery.  The  lake  seemed 
to  swim  before  her. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THEY  made  their  tea  under  the  shadow  of 
the  farm -building,  which  consisted  of  a 
loft  above,  and  a  large  dark  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  which  was  filled  with  the  flat  straw- 
berry baskets,  full  and  ready  for  market. 

Lucy  found  the  little  festa  delightful,  though 
all  that  the  ladies  had  to  do  was  to  make  an 
audience  for  Aristodemo  and  Manisty.  The 
handsome  dare-devil  lad  began  to  talk,  drawn 
out  by  the  Englishman,  and  lo  !  instead  of  a 
mere  peasant  they  had  got  hold  of  an  artist  and 
a  connoisseur  !  Did  he  know  anything  of  the 
excavations  and  the  ruins?  Why,  he  knew  every- 
thing !  He  chattered  to  them,  with  astonishing 
knowledge  and  shrewdness,  for  half  an  hour. 
Complete  composure,  complete  good  -  humor, 
complete  good  manners — he  possessed  them  all. 
Easy  to  see  that  he  was  the  son  of  an  old  race, 
moulded  by  long  centuries  of  urbane  and  civilized 
living ! 

A  little  boastful,  perhaps.     He  too  had  found 
the  head   of   a  statue,   digging   in   his   father's 
orchard.     Man   or  woman  ?  —  asked   Mrs.  Bur- 
182 


goyne.  A  woman.  And  handsome  ?  The  hand- 
somest lady  ever  seen.  And  perfect?  Quite 
perfect.  Had  she  a  nose,  for  instance?  He 
shook  his  young  head  in  scorn.  Naturally  she 
had  a  nose  !  Did  the  ladies  suppose  he  would 
have  picked  up  a  creature  without  one? 

Then  he  rose  and  beckoned  smiling  to  Eleanor 
and  Lucy.  They  followed  him  through  the  cool 
lower  room,  where  the  strawberries  gleamed  red 
through  the  dark,  up  the  creaking  stairs  to  the 
loft.  And  there  on  the  ground  was  an  old  box, 
and  in  the  box  a  few  score  of  heads  and  other 
fragments — little  terracottas,  such  as  the  peas- 
ants turn  up  every  winter  as  they  plough  or  dig 
among  the  olives.  Delicate  little  hooded  women, 
heads  of  Artemis  with  the  crown  of  Cybele, 
winged  heads,  or  heads  covered  with  the  Phry- 
gian cap,  portrait-heads  of  girls  or  children,  with 
their  sharp  profiles  still  perfect,  and  the  last  dab 
of  the  clay  under  the  thumb  of  the  artist,  as  clear 
and  clean  as  when  it  was  laid  there  some  twenty- 
two  centuries  ago. 

Lucy  bent  over  them  in  a  passion  of  pleasure, 
turning  over  the  little  things  quite  silently,  but 
with  sparkling  looks. 

"  Would  you  like  them  ?"  said  Manisty,  who 
had  followed  them,  and  stood  over  her,  cigarette 
in  hand. 

"  Oh  no  !"  said  Lucy,  rising  in  confusion. 
"  Don't  get  them  for  me." 

"  Come  away,"  said  Eleanor,  laughing.  "  Never 
interfere  between  a  man  and  a  bargain." 
183 


The  padrone  indeed  appeared  at  the  moment. 
Manisty  sent  the  ladies  down-stairs,  and  the  bar- 
gaining began. 

When  he  came  down-stairs  ten  minutes  later  a 
small  basket  was  in  his  hand.  He  offered  it  to 
Lucy,  while  he  held  out  his  other  hand  to  Elea- 
nor. The  hand  contained  two  fragments  only, 
but  of  exquisite  quality,  one  a  fine  Artemis  head 
with  the  Cybele  crown,  the  other  merely  the 
mask  or  shell  of  a  face,  from  brow  to  chin, — a 
gem  of  the  purest  and  loveliest  Greek  work. 

Eleanor  took  them  with  a  critical  delight.  Her 
comments  were  the  comments  of  taste  and  knowl- 
edge. They  were  lightly  given,  without  the  small- 
est pedantry,  but  Manisty  hardly  answered  them. 
He  walked  eagerly  to  Lucy  Foster,  whose  shy 
intense  gratitude,  covering  an  inward  fear  that 
he  had  spent  far,  far  too  much  money  upon  her, 
and  that  she  had  indecorously  provoked  his 
bounty,  was  evidently  attractive  to  him.  He  told 
her  that  he  had  got  them  for  a  mere  nothing, 
and  they  sat  down  on  the  bench  behind  the  house 
together,  turning  them  over,  he  holding  forth, 
and  now  and  then  discovering  through  her  mod- 
est or  eager  replies,  that  she  had  been  somehow 
remarkably  well  educated  by  that  old  Calvinist 
uncle  of  hers.  The  tincture  of  Greek  and  Latin, 
which  had  looked  so  repellant  from  a  distance, 
presented  itself  differently  now  that  it  enabled 
him  to  give  his  talk  rein,  and  was  partly  the 
source  in  her  of  these  responsive  grateful  looks 
which  became  her  so  well.  After  all  perhaps 
184 


her  Puritan  stiffness  was  only  on  the  surface 
How  much  it  had  yielded  already  to  Eleanor's 
lessons  1  He  really  felt  inclined  to  continue  them 
on  his  own  account;  to  test  for  himself  this  far- 
famed  pliancy  of  the  American  woman. 

Meanwhile  Eleanor  moved  away,  watching  the 
path  from  Genzano  which  wound  downward  from 
the  Sforza  Cesarini  villa  to  the  Giardino,  and 
was  now  visible,  now  hidden  by  the  folds  of  the 
shore. 

Presently  Manisty  and  Lucy  heard  her  excla- 
mation. 

"  At  last ! — What  has  Reggie  been  about  ?" 

"  Coming  ?"  said  Manisty. 

*'  Yes — thank  goodness !  Evidently  they  missed 
that  first  train.  But  now  there  are  four  people 
coming  down  the  hill — two  men  and  two  ladies. 
I'm  sure  one's  Reggie." 

"Well,  for  the  practical  man  he  hasn't  dis- 
tinguished himself,"  said  Manisty,  taking  out  an- 
other cigarette. 

"  I  can't  see  them  now — they're  hidden  behind 
that  bend.  They'll  be  ten  minutes  more,  I  should 
think,  before  they  arrive.     Edward  !" 

"  Yes  ? — Don't  be  energetic  !" 

"There's  just  time  to  explore  that  ravine — 
while  they're  having  tea.  Then  we  shall  have 
seen  it  all  —  done  the  last,  last  thing !  Who 
knows  —  dear  Nemi !  —  if  we  shall  ever  see  it 
again  ?" 

Her  tone  was   quite    gay,  yet,  involuntarily, 
there  was  a  touching  note  in  it.     Lucy  looked 
i8S 


fidWti  guiltily,  wishing  herself  away.  But  Mariisty 
resisted. 

"  You'll  be  very  tired,  Eleanor — it's  much  far- 
ther  than  you  think — and  it's  very  hot." 

"Oh  no,  it's  not  far— and  the  sun's  going  down 
fast.  You  wouldn't  be  afraid  ?  They'll  be  here 
directly,"  she  said,  turning  to  Lucy.  *'  I'm  sure 
it  was  they." 

"  Don't  mind  me,  please  !"  said  Lucy.  "I  shall 
be  perfectly  right.  I'll  boil  the  kettle  again,  and 
be  ready  for  them.  Aristodemo  will  look  after 
me. 

Eleanor  turned  to  Manisty. 

"  Come  !"  she  said. 

This  time  she  rather  commanded  than  entreat- 
ed. There  was  a  delicate  stateliness  in  her  atti- 
tude, her  half-mourning  dress  of  gray  and  black, 
her  shadowy  hat,  the  gesture  of  her  hand,  that 
spoke  a  hundred  subtle  things — all  those  points 
of  age  and  breeding,  of  social  distinction  and  ex- 
perience, that  marked  her  out  from  Lucy — from 
the  girl's  charming  immaturity. 

Manisty  rose  ungraciously.  As  he  followed  his 
cousin  along  the  narrow  path  among  the  straw- 
berry -  beds  his  expression  was  not  agreeable. 
Eleanor's  heart — if  she  had  looked  back — might 
have  failed  her.     But  she  hurried  on. 

Lucy,  left  to  herself,  set  the  stove  under  the 
kettle  alight  and  prepared  some  fresh  tea,  while 
Aristodemo  and  the  other  boy  leaned  against  the 
wall  in  the  shade  chattering  to  each  other, 
1 86 


The  voices  of  Eleanor  and  Manisty  had  van- 
ished out  of  hearing  in  the  wood  behind  the 
Giardino.  But  the  voices  from  Genzano  began 
to  come  nearer.  A  quarter  to  six. — There  would 
be  only  a  short  time  for  them  to  rest  and  have 
their  tea  in,  before  they  must  all  start  home  for 
the  villa,  where  Miss  Manisty  was  expecting  the 
whole  party  for  dinner  at  eight.  Was  that  Mr. 
Brooklyn's  voice  ?  She  could  not  se©  them,  but 
she  could  hear  them  talking  in  the  narrow  over- 
grown lane  leading  from  the  lake  to  the  ruins. 

How  very  strange  !  The  four  persons  approach- 
ing entered  the  Giardino  still  noisily  laughing 
and  talking — and  Lucy  knew  none  of  them  !  The 
two  men,  of  whom  one  certainly  resembled  Mr. 
Brooklyn  in  height  and  build,  were  quite  stran- 
gers to  her  ;  and  she  felt  certain  that  the  two 
ladies,  who  were  stout  and  elderly,  had  nothing 
to  do  either  with  Mrs.  Elliott,  Mr.  Reggie's  mar- 
ried sister,  or  with  the  ambassador's  daughter. 

She  watched  them  with  astonishment.  They 
were  English,  tourists  apparently  from  Frascati, 
to  judge  from  their  conversation.  And  they 
were  in  a  great  hurry.  The  walk  had  taken  them 
longer  than  they  expected,  and  they  had  only  a 
short  time  to  stay.  They  looked  carelessly  at 
the  niched  wall,  and  the  shed  with  the  strawberry 
baskets,  remarking  that  there  was  "  precious  little 
to  see,  now  you'd  done  it."  Then  they  walked 
past  Lucy,  throwing  many  curious  glances  at  the 
solitary  English  girl  with  the  tea-things  before 
her,  the  gentlemen  raising  their  hats.  And  final- 
187 


fy  they  hurried  away,  and  all  sounds  of  them 
were  soon  lost  in  the  quiet  of  the  May  evening. 

Lucy  was  left,  feeling  a  little  forlorn  and  dis- 
concerted. Presently  she  noticed  that  all  the 
women  working  on  the  Giardino  land  were  going 
home.  Aristodemo  and  his  companion  ran  after 
some  of  the  girls,  and  their  discordant  shouts 
and  laughs  could  be  heard  in  the  distance, 
mingled  with  the  "  Ave  Maria  "  sung  by  groups 
of  women  and  girls  who  were  mounting  the  zig- 
zag path  towards  Nemi,  their  arms  linked  to- 
gether. 

The  evening  stillness  came  flooding  into  the 
great  hollow  like  a  soft  resistless  wave.  Every 
now  and  then  the  voices  of  peasants  going  home 
rippled  up  from  unseen  paths,  then  sank  again 
into  the  earth.  On  the  high  windows  of  Nemi 
the  sunset  light  from  the  Campagna  struck  and 
flamed,  ^''Ave  Maria — gratia  plena'*  How  soft- 
ened now,  how  thinly,  delicately  far  !  The  sing- 
ers must  be  nearing  their  homes  in  the  little  hill 
town. 

Lucy  looked  around  her.  No  one  on  the  Gi- 
ardino, no  one  in  the  fields  near,  no  one  on  the 
Genzano  road.  She  seemed  to  be  absolutely 
alone.  Her  two  companions  indeed  could  not 
be  far  away,  and  the  boys  no  doubt  would  come 
back  for  the  baskets.  But  meanwhile  she  could 
see  and  hear  no  one. 

The  sun  disappeared  behind  the  Genzano  ridge, 
and  it  grew  cold  all  in  a  moment.  She  felt  the 
chill,  together  with  a  sudden  consciousness  of 
i88 


fatigue.  Was  there  fever  in  this  hollow  of  the 
lake?  Certainly  the  dwellings  were  all  placed 
on  the  heights,  save  for  the  fisherman's  cottage 
half-way  to  Genzano.  She  got  up  and  began 
to  move  about,  wishing  for  her  cloak.  But  Mr. 
Manisty  had  carried  it  off,  absently,  on  his  arm. 

Then  she  packed  up  the  tea-things.  What  had 
happened  to  the  party  from  Rome  ? 

Surely  more  than  an  hour  had  passed.  Had 
it  taken  them  longer  to  climb  to  the  spring's 
source  than  they  supposed  ?  How  fast  the  light 
was  failing,  the  rich  Italian  light,  impatient  to 
be  gone,  claiming  all  or  nothing! 

The  girl  began  to  be  a  little  shaken  with  vague 
discomforts  and  terrors.  She  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  wander  about  the  lake  of  Albano  by 
herself,  and  to  make  friends  with  the  peasants.- 
But  after  all  the  roads  would  not  be  so  closely 
patrolled  by  carabinieri  if  all  was  quite  as  safe 
as  in  Vermont  or  Middlesex ;  and  there  were 
plenty  of  disquieting  stories  current  among  the 
English  visitors,  even  among  the  people  them- 
selves. Was  it  not  only  a  month  since  a  car- 
riage containing  some  German  royalties  had 
been  stopped  and  robbed  by  masked  peasants 
on  the  Rocca  di  Papa  road?  Had  not  an  old 
resident  in  Rome  told  her,  only  the  day  before, 
that  when  he  walked  about  these  lake -paths 
he  always  filled  his  pockets  with  cigars  and 
divested  them  of  money,  in  order  that  the  char- 
coal-burners might  love  him  without  robbing 
him?  Had  not  friends  of  theirs  going  to  Cori 
189 


and  Ninfa  been  followed  by  mounted  police  all 
the  way? 

These  things  weighed  little  with  her  as  she 
wandered  in  broad  daylight  about  the  roads  near 
the  villa.  But  now  she  was  quite  alone,  the  night 
was  coming,  and  the  place  seemed  very  desolate. 

But  of  course  they  would  be  back  directly . 
Why  not  walk  to  meet  them  ?  It  was  the  heat 
and  slackness  of  the  day  that  had  unnerved  her. 
Perhaps,  too,  unknown  to  herself  ! — the  stir  of 
new  emotions  and  excitements  in  a  deep  and 
steadfast  nature. 

She  had  marked  the  path  they  took,  and  she 
made  her  way  to  it.  It  proved  to  be  very  steep, 
dark,  and  stony  under  meeting  trees.  She  climb- 
ed it  laboriously,  calling  at  intervals. 

Presently — a  sound  of  steps  and  hoofs.  Look- 
ing up  she  could  just  distinguish  a  couple  of  led 
mules  with  two  big  lads  picking  their  way  down 
the  rocky  lane.  There  was  no  turning  aside. 
She  passed  them  with  as  much  despatch  as  pos- 
sible. 

They  stopped,  however,  and  stared  at  her, — 
the  elegant  lady  in  her  white  dress  all  alone. 
Then  they  passed,  and  she  could  not  but  be  con- 
scious of  relief,  especially  as  she  had  neither 
money  nor  cigars. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  clatter  of  steps  behind 
her,  and  she  turned  to  see  one  of  the  boys,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand — 

"  Signora  ! — un  soldino  !*' 

She  walked  fast,  shaking  her  head. 
190 


"Non  ho  niente— niente." 

He  followed  her,  still  begging,  his  whining 
note  passing  into  something  more  insolent.  She 
hurried  on.  Presently  there  was  a  silence;  the 
steps  ceased  ;  she  supposed  he  was  tired  of  the 
pursuit,  and  had  dropped  back  to  the  point  where 
his  companion  was  waiting  with  the  mules. 

But  there  was  a  sudden  movement  in  the  lane 
behind.  She  put  up  her  hand  with  a  little  cry. 
Her  cheek  was  struck, — again  ! — another  stone 
struck  her  wrist.  The  blood  flowed  over  her 
hand.  She  began  to  run,  stumbling  up  the  path, 
wondering  how  she  could  defend  herself  if  the 
two  lads  came  back  and  attacked  her  together. 

Luckily  the  path  turned  ;  her  white  dress  could 
no  longer  offer  them  a  mark.  She  fled  on,  and 
presently  found  a  gap  in  the  low  wall  of  the  lane, 
and  a  group  of  fig-trees  just  beyond  it,  amid  which 
she  crouched.  The  shock,  the  loneliness,  the 
pang  of  the  boys'  brutality,  had  brought  a  sob 
into  her  throat.  Why  had  her  companions  left 
her? — it  was  not  kind  ! — till  they  w^ere  sure  that 
the  people  coming  were  their  expected  guests. 
Her  cheek  seemed  to  be  merely  grazed,  but  her 
wrist  was  deeply  cut.  She  wrapped  her  hand- 
kerchief tightly  round  it,  but  it  soon  began  to 
drip  again  upon  her  pretty  dress.  Then  she  tore 
off  some  of  the  large  young  fig-leaves  beside  her, 
not  knewing  what  else  to  do,  and  held  them  to  it. 

A  iew  minutes  later,  Manisty  and  Eleanor  de- 
scended the  same  path  in  haste.   They  had  found 
191 


the  ascent  longer  and  more  intricate  than  even 
he  had  expected,  and  had  lost  count  of  time  in  a 
conversation  beside  Egeria's  spring  —  a  conver- 
sation that  brought  them  back  to  Lucy  changed 
beings,  in  a  changed  relation.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  Manisty's  moody,  embarrassed  look? 
and  of  that  white  and  smiling  composure  that 
made  a  still  frailer  ghost  of  Eleanor  than  be- 
fore? 

*'Did  you  hear  that  call?"  said  Manisty,  stop- 
ping. 

It  was  repeated,  and  they  both  recognized 
Lucy  Foster's  voice,  coming  from  somewhere 
close  to  them  on  the  richly  grown  hill-side.  Man- 
isty exclaimed,  ran  on — paused — listened  again 
— shouted — and  there,  beside  the  path,  propping; 
herself  against  the  stones  of  the  wall,  was  a  white 
and  tremulous  girl  holding  a  swathed  arm  stiffly 
in  front  of  her  so  that  the  blood  dripping  from 
it  should  not  fall  upon  her  dress. 

Manisty  came  up  to  her  in  utter  consterna- 
tion. "What  has  happened?  How  are  you  here ? 
Where  are  the  others  ?" 

She  answered  dizzily,  then  said,  faintly  trying 
to  smile,  "If  you  could  provide  me  with — some- 
thing to  tie  round  it?" 

"  Eleanor !"  Manisty's  voice  rang  up  the  path. 
Then  he  searched  his  own  pockets  in  despair- 
remembering  that  he  had  wrapped  his  handker- 
chief round  Eleanor's  precious  terracottas  just 
before  they  started,  that  the  little  parcel  was  on 
the  top  of  the  basket  he  had  given  to  Miss  Fos^ 
192 


ter,  and  that  both  were  probably  waiting  with 
the  tea-things  below. 

Eleanor  came  up. 

"Why  did  we  leave  her?"  cried  Manisty,  turn- 
ing vehemently  upon  his  cousin — "  That  was  not 
Reggie  and  his  party !  What  a  horrible  mistake ! 
She  has  been  attacked  by  some  of  these  peasant 
brutes.    Just  look  at  this  bleeding !" 

Something  in  his  voice  roused  a  generous  dis- 
comfort in  Lucy  even  through  her  faintness. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  said.  "  How  could  you 
help  it  ?  It  is  so  silly  ! — I  am  so  strong — and  yet 
any  cut,  or  prick  even,  makes  me  feel  faint.  If 
only  we  could  make  it  stop — I  should  be  all  right." 

Eleanor  stooped  and  looked  at  the  wound,  so 
far  as  the  light  would  serve,  touching  the  wrist 
with  her  ice-cold  fingers.  Manisty  watched  her 
anxiously.  He  valued  her  skill  in  nursing  mat- 
ters. 

" It  will  soon  stop,"  she  said.  "We  must  bind 
it  tightly." 

And  with  a  spare  handkerchief,  and  the  long 
muslin  scarf  from  her  own  neck,  she  presently 
made  as  good  a  bandage  as  was  possible. 

"  My  poor  frock !"  said  Lucy,  half  laughing, 
half  miserable, — "what  will  Benson  say  to  me?" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"  We  must  have  a  sling,"  she  was  saying  to  her- 
self, and  she  took  off  the  light  silk  shawl  she  wore 
round  her  own  shoulders. 

"  Oh  no !  Don't,  please  !"  said  Lucy.  "  It  has 
grown  so  cold." 

193 


And  then  they  both  perceived  that  she  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Good  Heavens !"  cried  Manisty,  looking  at 
something  on  his  own  arm.  "And  I  carried  off 
her  cloak !  There  it's  been  all  the  time !  What 
a  pretty  sort  of  care  to  take  of  you !" 

Eleanor  meanwhile  was  turning  her  shawl  into 
a  sling  in  spite  of  Lucy's  remonstrances.  Man- 
isty made  none. 

When  the  arm  was  safely  supported,  Lucy 
pulled  herself  together  with  a  great  effort  of 
will,  and  declared  that  she  could  now  walk  quite 
well. 

"  But  all  that  way  round  the  lake  to  Genzano  !" 
— said  Manisty ;  "  or  up  that  steep  hill  to  Nemi  ? 
Eleanor  !  how  can  she  possibly  manage  it  ?" 

"Let  her  try,"  said  Eleanor  quietly.  "It  is 
the  best.     Now  let  her  take  your  arm." 

Lucy  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  smiling 
tremulously.  "  Thank  you  ! — thank  you  !  What 
a  trouble  I  am  !" 

She  put  out  her  free  hand,  but  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
seemed  to  have  moved  away.  It  was  taken  by 
Manisty,  who  drew  it  within  his  arm. 

They  descended  slowly,  and  just  as  they  were 
emerging  from  the  heavy  shadow  of  the  lane  into 
the  mingled  sunset  and  moonlight  of  the  open 
Giardino,  sounds  reached  them  that  made  them 
pause  in  astonishment. 

"  Reggie  \"  said  Manisty — "  and  Neal !  Listen  ! 
Good  gracious ! — there  they  are !" 

And  sure  enough,  there  in  the  dim  light  behind 
194 


the  farm-building,  gathered  in  a  group  round  the 
tea-baskets,  laughing,  and  talking  eagerly  with 
each  other,  or  with  Aristodemo,  was  the  whole 
lost  party — the  two  ladies  and  the  two  men.  And 
beside  the  group,  held  by  another  peasant,  was  a 
white  horse  with  a  side-saddle. 

Manisty  called.  The  new-comers  turned,  looked, 
then  shouted  exultant. 

"Well !" — said  Reggie,  throwing  up  his  arms  at 
sight  of  Manisty,  and  skimming  over  the  straw- 
berry furrows  towards  them.  "  Of  all  the  mud- 
dles !  I  give  you  this  blessed  country.  I'll  never 
say  a  word  for  it  again.  Everything  on  this 
beastly  line  altered  for  May — no  notice  to  any- 
body !— all  the  old  trains  printed  as  usual,  and  a 
wretched  fly-leaf  tucked  in  somewhere  that  no- 
body saw  or  was  likely  to  see.  Station  full  of 
people  for  the  2.45.  Train  taken  off — nothing 
till  4.45.  Never  saw  such  a  confusion !— and  the 
Capo-stazione  as  rude  as  he  could  be.  I  say  I — 
what's  the  matter?" 

He  drew  up  sharp  in  front  of  them. 

*'  We'll  tell  you  presently,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Manisty  peremptorily.  "  But  now  just  help  us 
to  get  Miss  Foster  home.  What  a  mercy  you 
thought  of  bringing  a  horse!" 

"  Why  ! — I  brought  it  for — for  Mrs.  Burgoyne," 
said  the  young  man,  astonished,  looking  round 
for  his  cousin.  "  We  found  the  carriage  waiting 
at  the  Sforza  Cesarini  gate,  and  the  man  told  us 
you  were  an  hour  behind  your  time.  So  I  thought 
Eleanor  would  be  dead-tired,  and  I  went  to  that 
-  195 


man — you  remember? — we  got  a  horse  from  be- 
fore  " 

But  Manisty  had  hurried  Lucy  on  without 
listening  to  a  word;  and  she  herself  was  now 
too  dizzy  with  fatigue  and  loss  of  blood  to  grasp 
what  was  being  said  around  her. 

Reggie  fell  back  in  despair  on  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"  Eleanor ! — what  have  you  been  doing  to  your- 
selves !  What  a  nightmare  of  an  afternoon ! 
How  on  earth  are  you  going  to  walk  back  all  this 
way?     What's  wrong  with  Miss  Foster?" 

"  Some  rough  boys  threw  stones  at  her,  and  her 
arm  is  badly  cut.  Edward  will  take  her  on  to 
Genzano,  find  a  doctor  and  then  bring  her  home. 
— We'll  go  on  first,  and  send  back  another  car- 
riage for  them.  You  angel  Reggie,  to  think  of 
that  horse!" 

"  But  I  thought  of  it  for  you,  Eleanor,"  said 
the  young  man,  looking  in  distress  at  the  delicate 
woman  for  whom  he  had  so  frank  and  constant 
an  affection.  "  Miss  Foster's  as  strong  as  Sam- 
son ! — or  ought  to  be.  What  follies  has  she  been 
up  to?" 

"  Please^  Reggie — hold  your  tongue !  You  shall 
talk  as  much  nonsense  as  you  please  when  once 
we  have  started  the  poor  child  off." 

And  Eleanor  too  ran  forward.  Manisty  had 
just  put  together  a  rough  mounting  block  from 
some  timber  in  the  farm-building.  Meanwhile 
the  other  two  ladies  had  been  helpful  and  kind. 
Mrs.  Elliott  had  wrapped  a  white  Chudda  shawl 
round  Lucy's  shivering  frame,  A  flask  contain- 
196 


ing  some  brandy  had  been  extracted  from  Mr. 
Neal's  pocket,  more  handkerchiefs  and  a  better 
sling  found  for  the  arm.  Finally  Lucy,  all  her 
New  England  pride  outraged  by  the  fuss  that 
was  being  made  about  her,  must  needs  submit 
to  be  almost  lifted  on  the  horse  by  Manisty  and 
Mr.  Brooklyn.  When  she  found  herself  in  the 
saddle,  she  looked  round  bewildered.  "  But  this 
must  have  been  meant  for  Mrs.  Burgoyne!  Oh 
how  tired  she  will  be!" 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  me!  I  am  as 
fresh  as  paint,"  said  Eleanor's  laughing  voice 
beside  her. 

"  Eleanor !  will  you  take  them  all  on  ahead?" 
said  Manisty  impatiently  ;  "we  shall  have  to  lead 
her  carefully  to  avoid  rough  places." 

Eleanor  carried  off  the  rest  of  the  party.  Man^ 
isty  established  himself  at  Lucy's  side.  The  man 
from  Genzano  led  the  horse. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walking,  mixe4 
with  the  give  and  take  of  explanations  on  both 
sides  as  to  the  confusion  of  the  afternoon,  Eleanor 
paused  to  recover  breath  an  instant  on  a  rising 
ground.  Looking  back,  she  saw  through  the  blue 
hazes  of  the  evening  the  two  distant  figures — the 
white  form  on  the  horse,  the  protecting  nearness 
of  the  man. 

She  stifled  a  moan,  drawn  deep  from  founts  of 
covetous  and  passionate  agony.  Then  she  turned 
and  hurried  up  the  stony  path  with  an  energy, 
a  useless  haste  that  evoked  loud  protests  from 
Reggie  Brooklyn.     Eleanor  did  not  answer  him. 

i9r 


There  was  beating  within  her  veins  a  violence 
that  appalled  herself.  Whither  was  she  going  ? 
What  change  had  already  passed  on  all  the  gentle 
tendernesses  and  humanities  of  her  being? 

Meanwhile  Lucy  was  reviving  in  the  cool  fresh- 
ness of  the  evening  air.  She  seemed  to  be  trav- 
elling through  a  world  of  opal  color,  arched  by 
skies  of  pale  green,  melting  into  rose  above,  and 
daffodil  gold  below.  All  about  her,  blue  and 
purple  shadows  were  rising,  like  waves  interfused 
with  moonlight,  flooding  over  the  land.  Where 
did  the  lake  end  and  the  shore  begin  ?  All  was 
drowned  in  the  same  dim  wash  of  blue — the  olives 
and  figs,  the  reddish  earth,  the  white  of  the  cher- 
ries, the  pale  pink  of  the  almonds.  In  front  the 
lights  of  Genzano  gleamed  upon  the  tall  cliff. 
But  in  this  lonely  path  all  was  silence  and  woody 
fragrance;  the  honeysuckles  threw  breaths  across 
their  path  ;  tall  orchises,  white  and  stately,  broke 
here  and  there  from  the  darkness  of  the  banks. 
In  spite  of  pain  and  weakness  her  senses  seemed 
to  be  flooded  with  beauty.  A  strange  peace  and 
docility  overcame  her. 

"You  are  better?"  said  Manisty's  voice  beside 
her.  The  tones  of  it  were  grave  and  musical ; 
they  expressed  an  enwrapping  kindness,  a  "  hu- 
man softness"  that  still  further  moved  her. 

"  So  much  better  !     The  bleeding  has  almost 
stopped.     I — I  suppose  it  would  have  been  bet- 
ter, if  I  had  waited  for  you  ? — if  I  had  not  vent- 
ured on  those  paths  alone  ?" 
198 


There  was  in  her  scrupulous  mind  a  greai: 
penitence  about  the  whole  matter.  How  much 
trouble  she  was  giving!  —  how  her  imprudence 
had  spoiled  the  little  festa !  And  poor  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  ! — forced  to  walk  up  this  long,  long  way. 

"  Yes — perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  " — • 
said  Manisty.  "  One  never  quite  knows  about 
this  population.  After  all,  for  an  Italian  lady  to 
walk  about  some  English  country  lanes  alone, 
might  not  be  quite  safe  —  and  one  ruffian  is 
enough.  But  the  point  is — we  should  not  have 
left  you." 

She  was  too  feeble  to  protest.  Manisty  spoke 
to  the  man  leading  the  horse,  bidding  him  draw 
on  one  side,  so  as  to  avoid  a  stony  bit  of  path. 
Then  the  reins  fell  from  her  stiff  right  hand, 
which  seemed  to  be  still  trembling  with  cold. 
Instantly  Manisty  gathered  them  up,  and  re- 
placed them  in  the  chill  fingers.  As  he  did  so 
he  realized  with  a  curious  pleasure  that  the  hand 
and  wrist,  though  not  small,  were  still  beautiful, 
with  a  fine  shapely  strength. 

Presently,  as  they  mounted  the  steep  ascent 
towards  the  Sforza  Cesarini  woods,  he  made  her 
rest  half  way. 

"  How  those  stones  must  have  jarred  you  !" — 
he  said  frowning,  as  he  turned  the  horse,  so  that 
she  sat  easily,  without  strain. 

"  No  !     It  was  nothing.     Oh — glorious  !" 

For  she  found  herself  looking  towards  the 
woods  of  the  southeastern  ridge  of  the  lake, 
over  which  the  moon  had  now  fully  risen.  The 
199 


lake  was  half  shade,  half  light ;  the  fleecy  forests 
on  the  breast  of  Monte  Cavo  rose  soft  as  a  cloud 
into  the  infinite  blue  of  the  night-heaven.  Be- 
low, a  silver  shaft  struck  the  fisherman's  hut  be- 
side the  shore,  where,  deep  in  the  water's  breast, 
lie  the  wrecked  ships  of  Caligula, — the  treasure 
ships — whereof  for  seventy  generations  the  peas- 
ants of  Nemi  have  gone  dreaming. 

As  they  passed  the  hut, — half  an  hour  before — 
Manisty  had  drawn  her  attention,  in  the  dim 
light,  to  the  great  beams  from  the  side  of  the 
nearer  ship,  which  had  been  recently  recovered 
by  the  divers,  and  were  lying  at  the  water's  edge. 
\nd  he  had  told  her, — with  a  kindling  eye,— how 
he  himself,  within  the  last  few  months,  had  seen 
fresh  trophies  recovered  from  the  water,  —  a 
bfonze  Medusa  above  all,  fiercely  lovely,  the  worjf 
of  a  most  noble  and  most  passionate  art,  not 
Greek  though  taught  by  Greece,  fresh,  iu\h 
blooded,  and  strong,  the  art  of  the  Empire  in  i%9 
eagle-youth. 

"  Who  destroyed  the  ships,  and  why  ?"  he  said, 
as  they  paused,  looking  down  upon  the  lake. 
'*  There  is  not  a  s^red  of  evidence  One  can 
only  dream.  They  were  a  madman's  whim  ;  in- 
credibly rich  in  marble,  and  metal,  and  terra- 
cotta, paid  for,  no  doubt,  from  the  sweat  and 
blood  of  this  country-side.  Then  the  young 
monster  who  built  and  furnished  them  was  mur- 
dered on  the  Palatine.  Can't  you  see  the  rush 
of  ^n  avenging  mob  down  this  steep  lane  ? — th^ 
haYOC  an4  the  blows — the  peasants  hackmg  at 
200 


the  statues  and  the  bronzes — loading  their  ox- 
carts perhaps  with  the  plunder — and  finally  let- 
ting in  the  lake  upon  the  wreck  !  Well ! — some- 
how like  that  it  must  have  happened.  The  lake 
swallowed  them;  and,  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of 
the  Renaissance  people,  who  sent  down  divers, 
the  lake  has  kept  them,  substantially,  till  now. 
Not  a  line  about  them  in  any  known  document ! 
History  knows  nothing.  But  the  peasants  handed 
down  the  story  from  father  to  son.  Not  a  fisher- 
man on  this  lake,  for  eighteen  hundred  years,  but 
has  tried  to  reach  the  ships.  They  all  believed — 
they  still  believe — that  they  hold  incredible  treas- 
ures.    But  the  lake  is  jealous — they  lie  deep  !" 

Lucy  bent  forward,  peering  into  the  blue  dark- 
ness of  the  lake,  trying  to  see  with  his  eyes,  to 
oatch  the  same  ghostly  signals  from  the  past. 
The  romance  of  the  story  and  the  moment,  Man- 
isty's  low,  rushing  speech,  the  sparkle  of  his 
poet's  look — the  girl's  fancy  yielded  to  the  spell 
of  them  ;  her  breath  came  quick  and  soft. 
Through  all  their  outer  difference,  Manisty  sud- 
denly felt  the  response  of  her  temperament  to 
his.  It  was  delightful  to  be  there  with  her — de- 
lightful to  be  talking  to  her. 

"I  was  on  the  shore,"  he  continued,  "watching 
the  divers  at  work,  on  the  day  they  drew  up  the 
Medusa.  I  helped  the  man  who  drew  her  up  to 
clean  the  slime  and  mud  from  them,  and  the 
vixen  glared  at  me  all  the  time,  as  though  she 
thirsted  to  take  vengeance  upon  us  all.  She  had 
had  time  to  think  about  it,— for  she  sank  perhaps 

H  261 


ten  years  after  the  Crucifixion,— while  Mary  still 
lived  in  the  house  of  John  !" 

His  voice  dropped  to  the  note  of  reverie,  and 
a  thrill  passed  through  Lucy.  He  turned  the 
horse's  head  towards  Genzano,  and  they  jour- 
neyed on  in  silence.  She  indeed  was  too  weak 
for  many  words ;  but  enwrapped  as  it  were  by 
the  influences  around  her,  —  of  the  place,  the 
evening  beauty,  the  personality  of  the  man  be- 
side her, — she  seemed  to  be  passing  through  a 
many-colored  dream,  of  which  the  interest  and 
the  pleasure  never  ceased. 

Presently  they  passed  a  little  wayside  shrine. 
Within  its  penthouse  eave  an  oil-lamp  flickered 
before  the  frescoed  Madonna  and  Child ;  the  shelf 
in  front  of  the  picture  was  heaped  with  flowers 
just  beginning  to  fade.  Manisty  stayed  the  horse 
a  moment ;  pointed  first  to  the  shrine,  then  to 
the  bit  of  road  beneath  their  feet. 

"  Do  you  see  this  travertine  —  these  blocks  ? 
This  is  a  bit  of  the  old  road  to  the  temple.  I  was 
with  the  exploring  party  when  they  carried  up 
the  Medusa  and  some  other  of  their  finds  along 
here  past  the  shrine.  It  was  nearly  dark — they 
did  not  want  to  be  observed.  But  I  was  an  old 
friend  of  the  man  in  command,  and  he  and  I  were 
walking  together.  The  bearers  of  the  heavy 
bronze  things  got  tired.  They  put  down  their 
load  just  here,  and  lounged  away.  My  friend 
stepped  up  to  the  sort  of  wooden  bier  they  were 
carrying,  to  see  that  all  was  right.  He  uncov- 
ered the  Medusa,  and  turned  her  to  the  light  of 
202 


the  lamp  before  the  shrine.  You  never  saw  sc 
strange  and  wild  a  thing ! — the  looks  she  threw 
at  the  Madonna  and  Child.  *  Ah !  Madam,'  I 
said  to  her  —  *  the  world  was  yours  when  you 
went  down — but  now  it's  theirs !  Tame  your  in- 
solence !'  And  I  thought  of  hanging  her  here, 
at  night,  just  outside,  under  the  lamp  against  the 
wall  of  the  shrine — and  how  one  might  come  in 
the  dark  upon  the  fierce  head  with  the  snakes^ 
and  watch  her  gazing  at  the  Christ." 

Lucy  shuddered  and  smiled. 

"  I'm  glad  she  wasn't  yours  !" 

"  Why  ?  The  peasants  would  soon  have  made 
a  saint  of  her,  and  invented  a  legend  to  fit.  The 
snakes,  for  them,  would  have  been  the  instru- 
ments of  martyrdom  —  turned  into  a  martyr's 
crown.  Italy  and  Catholicism  absorb — assimilate 
— everything.  ''Santa  Medusa/' — I  assure  you, 
she  would  be  quite  in  order." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  she  heard  him  say 
under  his  breath — "  Marvellous,  marvellous  Italy !" 

She  started  and  gave  a  slight  cry — unsteady, 
involuntary. 

"  But  you  don't  love  her  ! — you  are  ungrateful 
to  her  !" 

He  looked  up  surprised  —  then  laughed  —  a 
frank,  pugnacious  laugh. 

*'  There  is  Italy — and  Italy. 

"  There  is  only  one  Italy  ' — Aristodemo's  Italy 
— the  Italy  the  peasants  work  in." 

She  turned  to  him,  breathing  quicker,  the  color 
returning  to  her  pale  cheek. 
203 


"  The  Italy  that  has  just  sent  seven  thousand 
of  her  sons  to  butchery  in  a  wretched  colony, 
because  her  hungry  politicians  must  have  glory 
and  keep  themselves  in  office  ?  You  expect  me 
to  love  that  Italy?" 

Within  the  kind  new  sweetness  of  his  tone — a 
sweetness  no  man  could  use  more  subtly — there 
had  risen  the  fiery  accustomed  note.  But  so  re- 
strained, so  tempered  to  her  weakness,  her  mo- 
mentary dependence  upon  him  ! 

"  You  might  be  generous  to  her — just,  at  least ! 
— for  the  sake  of  the  old." 

She  trembled  a  little  from  the  mere  exertion  of 
speaking,  and  he  saw  it. 

"No  controversy  to-night!"  he  said  smiling. 
"  Wait  till  you  are  fit  for  it,  and  I  will  overwhelm 
you.  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  all  about 
the  partisan  literature  you  have  been  devour- 
ing?" 

"  One  had  to  hear  the  other  side." 

*'  Was  I  such  a  bore  with  the  right  side  ?" 

They  both  laughed.  Then  he  said,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  with  sudden  emphasis  : 

**  What  a  nation  of  revolutionists  you  are  in 
America !  What  does  it  feel  like,  I  wonder,  to  be 
a  people  without  a  past,  without  traditions  ?" 

Lucy  exclaimed :  "  Why,  we  are  made  of  tra- 
ditions !" 

**  Traditions  of  revolt  and  self-will  are  no  tra- 
ditions," he  said  provokingly.  "  The  submission 
of  the  individual  to  the  whole — that's  what  you 
know  nothing  of." 

204 


"  We  shall  know  it  when  we  want  it !  But  it 
will  be  a  free  submission — given  willingly." 

"  No  priests  allowed  ?  Oh  !  you  will  get  your 
priests.  You  are  getting  them.  No  modern  na- 
tion can  hold  together  without  them." 

They  sparred  a  little  longer.  Then  Lucy's 
momentary  spirit  of  fight  departed.  She  looked 
wistfully  to  see  how  near  they  were  to  Genzano. 
Manisty  approached  her  more  closely. 

"  Did  my  nonsense  cheer  you — or  tire  you?"  he 
said  in  a  different  voice.  "  I  only  meant  it  to 
amuse  you.     Hark! — did  you  hear  that  sound?" 

They  stopped.  Above  them,  to  the  right,  they 
saw  through  the  dusk  a  small  farm  in  a  patch  of 
vineyard.  A  dark  figure  suddenly  hurled  itself 
down  a  steep  path  towards  them.  Other  figures 
followed  it — seemed  to  wrestle  with  it ;  there  was 
a  confused  wailing  and  crying — the  piteous  shrill 
lamenting  of  a  woman's  voice. 

"  Oh,  what  is  it  ?"  cried  Lucy,  clasping  her 
hands. 

Manisty  spoke  a  few  sharp  words  to  the  man 
leading  the  horse.  The  man  stood  still  and 
checked  his  beast.  Manisty  ran  towards  the 
sounds  and  the  dim  struggle  on  the  slope  above 
them. 

Such  a  cry  !  It  rent  and  desolated  the  evening 
peace.  It  seemed  to  Lucy  the  voice  of  an  old 
woman,  crossed  by  other  voices — rough,  chiding 
voices  of  men.  Oh,  were  they  ill-treating  her  ? 
The  girl  said  hurriedly  to  the  man  beside  her 
that  she  would  dismount. 
205 


"No,  no,  signorina,"  said  the  man,  placidly, 
raising  his  hand.  "  The  signor  will  be  here  di- 
rectly.    It  happens  often,  often." 

And  almost  at  the  same  moment  Manisty  was 
beside  her  again,  and  the  grewsome  sounds  above 
were  dying  away. 

"  Were  you  frightened?"  he  said,  with  anxiety. 
"  There  was  no  need.  How  strange  that  it  should 
have  happened  just  now  !  It's  a  score  that  your 
Italy  must  settle — mine  washes  her  hands  of  it  !" 
and  he  explained  that  what  she  had  heard  were 
the  cries  of  a  poor  hysterical  woman,  a  small  far- 
mer's wife,  who  had  lost  both  her  sons  in  the 
Abyssinian  war,  in  the  frightful  retreat  of  Adowa, 
and  had  never  been  in  her  right  mind  since  the 
news  arrived.  With  the  smallest  lapse  in  the 
vigilance  of  those  about  her,  she  would  rush 
down  to  the  road,  and  throw  herself  upon  any 
passer-by,  imploring  them  to  intercede  for  her 
with  the  government — that  they  should  give  her 
back  her  sons — Nino,  at  least ! — Nino,  her  young- 
est, and  darling.  It  was  impossible  that  they 
should  both  be  dead  —  impossible!  The  Holy 
Virgin  would  never  have  suffered  it. 

"  Poor  soul ! — she  tried  to  cling  round  my  knees 
— wailing  out  the  candles  and  prayers  she  had 
offered  —  shrieking  something  about  the  *Gov- 
erno.'  I  helped  the  sons  to  carry  her  in.  They 
were  quite  gentle  to  her." 

Lucy  turned  away  her  head  ;  and  they  resumed 
their  march.  She  governed  herself  with  all  her 
power ;  but  her  normal  self-control  was  weakened, 
2q6 


and  that  cry  of  anguish  still  haunted  her.  Some 
quiet  tears  fell — she  hoped,  she  believed  that  they 
were  unseen. 

But  Manisty  perceived  them.  He  gave  not  the 
smallest  direct  sign  ;  he  began  at  once  to  talk  of 
other  things  in  a  quite  other  vein.  But  under- 
lying his  characteristic  whims  and  sallies  she  was 
presently  conscious  of  a  new  and  exquisite  gentle- 
ness. It  seemed  to  address  itself  both  to  her 
physical  fatigue,  and  to  the  painful  impression 
of  the  incident  which  had  just  passed.  Her  sud- 
den tears — the  tears  of  a  tired  child — and  his  deli- 
cate feeling — there  arose  out  of  them,  as  out  of 
their  whole  journey,  a  relation,  a  bond,  of  which 
both  were  conscious,  to  which  she  yielded  herself 
in  a  kind  of  vague  and  timid  pleasure. 

For  Manisty — as  she  sat  there,  high  above  him, 
yet  leaning  a  little  towards  him — there  was  some- 
thing in  the  general  freshness  and  purity  of  her 
presence,  both  physical  and  moral,  that  began 
most  singularly  to  steal  upon  his  emotions.  Cer- 
tain barriers  seemed  to  be  falling,  certain  secret 
sympathies  emerging,  drawn  from  regions  far 
below  their  differences  of  age  and  race,  of  na- 
tional and  intellectual  habit.  How  was  it  she 
had  liked  his  Palestine  book  so  much?  He  al- 
most felt  as  though  in  some  mysterious  way  he 
had  been  talking  to  her,  and  she  listening,  for 
years, — since  first,  perhaps,  her  sweet  crude  youth 
began. 

Then  even  his  egotism  felt  the  prick  of  humor. 
Five  weeks  had  she  been  with  them  at  the  villa? 
307 


— and  in  a  fortnight  their  party  was  to  break 
up.  How  profitably  indeed  he  had  used  his  time 
with  her  !  How  civil — how  kind — how  discern- 
ing he  had  shown  himself  ! 

Yet  soreness  of  this  kind  was  soon  lost  in  the 
surge  of  this  new  and  unexpected  impulse,  which 
brought  his  youth  exultantly  back  upon  him.  A 
beautiful  woman  rode  beside  him,  through  the 
Italian  evening.  With  impatience,  with  an  in- 
ward and  passionate  repudiation  of  all  other 
bonds  and  claims,  he  threw  himself  into  that 
mingled  process — at  once  exploring  and  reveal- 
ing— which  makes  the  thrill  of  all  the  higher 
relations  between  men  and  women,  and  ends  in- 
variably either  in  love — or  tragedy. 

They  found  a  carriage  waiting  for  them  near 
the  Sforza-Cesarini  gate,  and  in  it  Mrs.  Elliott, 
Reggie  Brooklyn's  kind  sister.  Lucy  was  taken 
to  a  doctor,  and  the  hurt  was  dressed.  By  nine 
o'clock  she  was  once  more  under  the  villa  roof. 
Miss  Manisty  received  her  with  lamentations  and 
inquiries,  that  the  tottering  Lucy  was  too  weary 
even  to  hear  aright.  Amid  what  seemed  to  her 
a  babel  of  tongues  and  lights  and  kind  concern, 
she  was  taken  to  bed  and  sleep. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  did  not  attend  her.  She  waited 
in  Manisty's  library,  and  when  Manisty  entered 
the  room  she  came  forward — 

"  Edward,  I  have  some  disagreeable  news" — 

He  stopped  abruptly. 

"Your  sister  Alice  will  be  here  to-morrow.** 
208 


''My  sister  —  Alice?"  —  he  repeated  incred- 
ulously. 

"  She  telegraphed  this  morning  that  she  must 
see  you.  Aunt  Pattie  consulted  me.  The  tele, 
gram  gave  no  address  —  merely  said  that  she 
would  come  to-morrow  for  two  or  three  nights." 

Manisty  first  stared  in  dismay,  then,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  pockets,  began  to  walk  hur- 
riedly to  and  fro. 

"  When  did  this  news  arrive  ?" 

"  This  morning,  before  we  started." 

"  Eleanor  ! — Why  was  I  not  told  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  save  the  day," — the  words  were 
spoken  in  Eleanor's  most  charming,  most  mu- 
sical voice.  "  There  was  no  address.  You  could 
not  have  stopped  her." 

"  I  would  have  managed  somehow,"  —  said 
Manisty,  striking  his  hand  on  the  table  beside 
him  in  his  annoyance  and  impatience. 

Eleanor  did  not  defend  herself.  She  tried  to 
soothe  him,  to  promise  him  as  usual  that  the 
dreaded  visit  should  be  made  easy  to  him.  But 
he  paid  little  heed.  He  sat  moodily  brooding 
in  his  chair ;  and  when  Eleanor's  persuasions 
ceased,  he  broke  out — 

"  That  poor  child  ! — After  to-day's  experiences, 
— to  have  Alice  let  loose  upon  her!  —  I  would 
have  given  anything — anything! — that  it  should 
not  have  happened." 

"  Miss  Foster  ?"  said  Eleanor  lightly — "oh  I  she 
will  bear  up." 

"  There  it  is !"— said  Manisty,  in  a  sudden  fury. 
209 


"We  have  all  been  misiudging  her  in  the  most 
extraordinary  way  !  She  is  the  most  sensitive, 
tender  -  natured  creature  —  I  would  not  put  an 
ounce  more  strain  upon  her  for  the  world." 

His  aunt  called  him,  and  he  went  stormily 
away.  Eleanor's  smile  as  she  stood  looking  after 
him — how  pale  and  strange  it  was! 


M' 


CHAPTER  IX 

ISS  FOSTER  is  not  getting  up?    How 
is  she?" 

"  I  believe  Aunt  Pattie  only  persuaded 
her  to  rest  till  after  breakfast,  and  that  was  hard 
work.  Aunt  Pattie  thought  her  rather  shaken 
still." 

The  speakers  were  Manisty  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 
Eleanor  was  sitting  in  the  deep  shade  of  the 
avenue  that  ran  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  gar- 
den. Through  the  gnarled  trunks  to  her  right 
shone  the  blazing  stretches  of  the  Campagna, 
melting  into  the  hot  shimmer  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. A  new  volume  of  French  memoirs,  where- 
of not  a  page  had  yet  been  cut,  was  lying  upon 
her  knee. 

Manisty,  who  had  come  out  to  consult  with 
her,  leaned  against  the  tree  beside  her.  Presently 
he  broke  out  impetuously  : 

"  Eleanor !  we  must  protect  that  girl.  You 
know  what  I  mean?     You'll  help  me?" 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?" 

"  Good  Heavens ! — I  hardly  know.  But  we  must 
keep  Alice  away  from  Miss  Foster.    She  mustn't 

211 


walk  with  her,  or  sit  with  her,  or  be  allowed  to 
worry  her  in  any  way.  I  should  be  beside  my- 
self with  alarm  if  Alice  were  to  take  a  fancy  to 
her." 

Eleanor  hesitated  a  moment.  The  slightest 
flush  rose  to  her  cheek,  unnoticed  in  the  shadow 
of  her  hat. 

"  You  know — if  you  are  in  any  real  anxiety — 
Miss  Foster  could  go  to  Florence.  She  told  me 
yesterday  that  the  Porters  have  friends  there 
whom  she  could  join." 

Manisty  fidgeted. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  think  that's  necessary.  It's  a 
great  pity  she  should  miss  Vallombrosa.  I  hoped 
I  might  settle  her  and  Aunt  Pattie  there  by  about 
the  middle  of  June." 

Eleanor  made  so  sudden  a  movement  that  her 
book  fell  to  the  ground. 

"You  are  going  to  Vallombrosa?  I  thought 
you  were  due  at  home,  the  beginning  of  June?" 

"  That  was  when  I  thought  the  book  was  com- 
ing out  before  the  end  of  the  month.    But  now — " 

"  Now  that  it  isn't  coming  out  at  all,  you  feel 
there's  no  hurry?" 

Manisty  looked  annoyed. 

"  I  don't  think  that's  a  fair  shot.  Of  course  the 
book's  coming  out !  But  if  it  isn't  June,  it  must 
be  October.     So  there's  no  hurry." 

The  little  cold  laugh  with  which  Eleanor  had 
spoken  her  last  words  subsided.  But  she  gave 
him  no  sign  of  assent.  He  pulled  a  stalk  of 
grass,  and  nibbled  at  it  uncomfortably. 

912 


"You  think  I'm  a  person  easily  discouraged?" 
he  said  presently. 

'*  You  take  advice  so  oddly,"  she  said,  smiling; 
**  sometimes  so  ill  —  sometimes  so  desperately 
well." 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  made  like  that  When 
a  man  begins  to  criticise  my  work,  I  first  hate 
him — then  I'm  all  of  his  opinion — only  more  so." 

"I  know,"  said  Eleanor  impatiently.  ''It's  this 
dreadful  modern  humility — the  abominable  pow- 
er we  all  have  of  seeing  the  other  side.  But  an 
author  is  no  good  till  he  has  thrown  his  critics 
out  of  window." 

"  Poor  Neal  J"  said  Manisty,  with  his  broad  sud- 
den smile,  "he  would  fall  hard.  However,  to 
return  to  Miss  Foster.  There's  no  need  to  drive 
her  away  if  we  look  after  her.  You'll  help  us, 
won't  you,  Eleanor?" 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  beside  her.  The 
momentary  cloud  had  cleared  away.  He  was  his 
most  charming,  most  handsome  self.  A  shiver 
ran  through  Eleanor.  Her  thought  flew  to  yes- 
terday— compared  the  kind  radiance  of  the  face 
beside  her,  its  look  of  brotherly  confidence  and 
appeal,  with  the  look  of  yesterday,  the  hard 
evasiveness  with  which  he  had  met  all  her  poor 
woman's  attempts  to  renew  the  old  intimacy,  re- 
knit  the  old  bond.  She  thought  of  the  solitary, 
sleepless  misery  of  the  night  she  had  just  passed 
through.  And  here  they  were,  sitting  in  cousin- 
ly talk,  as  though  nothing  else  were  between 
them  but  this  polite  anxiety  for  Miss  Foster's 
213 


peace  of  mind  !  What  was  behind  that  apparent- 
ly frank  brow — those  sparkling  gray-blue  eyes  ? 
Manisty  could  always  be  a  mystery  when  he 
cnose,  even  to  those  who  knew  him  best. 

She  drew  a  long  inward  breath,  feeling  the  old 
inexorable  compulsion  that  lies  upon  the  decent 
woman,  who  can  only  play  the  game  as  the  man 
chooses  to  set  it. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do — "  she  said  slow- 
ly.    "  You  think  Alice  is  no  better  ?" 

Manisty  shook  his  head.  He  looked  at  her 
sharply  and  doubtfully,  as  though  measuring  her 
— and  then  said,  lowering  his  voice  : 

"  I  believe — I  know  I  can  trust  you  with  this — 
I  have  some  reason  to  suppose  that  there  was  an 
attempt  at  suicide  at  Venice.  Her  maid  pre- 
vented it,  and  gave  me  the  hint.  I  am  in  com- 
munication with  the  maid — though  Alice  has  no 
idea  of  it." 

"  Ought  she  to  come  here  at  all  ?"  said  Eleanor 
after  a  pause. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that — of  meeting  all  the 
trains  and  turning  her  back.  But  you  know  her 
obstinacy.  As  long  as  she  is  in  Rome  and  we 
here,  we  can't  protect  ourselves  and  the  villa. 
There  are  a  thousand  ways  of  invading  us.  Bet- 
ter let  her  come — find  out  what  she  wants — pacify 
her  if  possible — and  send  her  away.  I  am  not 
afraid  for  ourselves,  you  included,  Eleanor  !  She 
would  do  us  no  harm.  A  short  annoyance — and 
it  would  be  over.  But  Miss  Foster  is  the  weak 
point." 

214 


Eleanor  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  strongest  signs  of  her  un* 
sound  state,"  said  Manisty,  frowning,  "  her  wild 
fancies  that  she  takes  for  girls  much  younger 
than  herself.  There  have  been  all  sorts  of  diffi- 
culties in  hotels.  She  will  be  absolutely  silent 
with  older  people— or  with  you  and  me,  for  in- 
stance—but if  she  can  captivate  any  quite  young 
creature,  she  will  pour  herself  out  to  her,  follow 
her,  write  to  her,  tease  her. — Poor,  poor  Alice!" 

Manisty's  voice  had  become  almost  a  groan. 
His  look  betrayed  a  true  and  manly  feeling. 

"One  must  always  remember,"  he  resumed, 
"  that  she  has  still  the  power  to  attract  a  stran- 
ger. Her  mind  is  in  ruins — but  they  are  the 
ruins  of  what  was  once  fine  and  noble.  But  it 
is  all  so  wild,  and  strange,  and  desperate.  A  girl 
is  first  fascinated — and  then  terrified.  She  be- 
gins by  listening,  and  pitying — then  Alice  pur- 
sues her,  swears  her  to  secrecy,  talks  to  her  of 
enemies  and  persecutors,  of  persons  who  wish 
her  death,  who  open  her  letters,  and  dog  her 
footsteps — till  the  girl  can't  sleep  at  nights,  and 
her  own  nerve  begins  to  fail  her.  There  was  a 
case  of  this  at  Florence  last  year.  Dalgetty, 
that's  the  maid,  had  to  carry  Alice  off  by  main 
force.  The  parents  of  the  girl  threatened  to 
set  the  doctors  in  motion — to  get  Alice  sent  to 
an  asylum." 

"But  surely,  surely,"  cried  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
"that  would  be  the  right  course!" 

Manisty  shook  his  head. 
215 


"  Impossible  !"  he  said  with  energy.  "  Don't 
imagine  that  my  lawyers  and  I  haven't  looked 
into  everything.  Unless  the  disease  has  made 
much  progress  since  I  last  saw  her,  Alice  will  al- 
ways baffle  any  attempts  to  put  her  in  restraint. 
She  is  queer  —  eccentric  —  melancholy;  she  en- 
velops the  people  she  victimizes  with  a  kind  of 
moral  poison  ;  but  you  can't  prove — so  far,  at 
least — that  she  is  dangerous  to  herself  or  others. 
The  evidence  always  falls  short."  He  paused  ; 
then  added  with  cautious  emphasis :  "  I  don't 
speak  without  book.     It  has  been  tried." 

"  But  the  attempt  at  Venice?" 

"  No  good.  The  maid's  letter  convinced  me  of 
two  things — first,  that  she  had  attempted  her  life, 
and  next,  that  there  is  no  proof  of  it." 

Eleanor  bent  forward. 

"And  the  suitor — the  man  ?" 

"  Dalgetty  tells  me  there  have  been  two  inter- 
views. The  first  at  Venice — probably  connected 
with  the  attempt  we  know  of.  The  second  some 
weeks  ago  at  Padua.  I  believe  the  man  to  be  a 
reputable  person,  though  no  doubt  not  insensi- 
ble to  the  fact  that  Alice  has  some  money.  You 
know  who  he  is  ? — a  French  artist,  she  came 
across  in  Venice.  He  is  melancholy  and  lonely 
like  herself.  I  believe  he  is  genuinely  attached 
to  her.  But  after  the  last  scene  at  Padua  she  told 
Dalgetty  that  she  would  never  make  him  misera- 
ble by  marrying  him." 

"What  do  you  suppose  she  is  coming  here  for?" 

"  Very  likely  to  get  me  to  do  something  for  this 
216 


man.  She  won't  be  his  wife,  but  she  likes  to  be 
his  Providence  :  I  shall  promise  anything,  in  re- 
turn for  her  going  quickly  back  to  Venice— or 
Switzerland — where  she  often  spends  the  sum- 
mer. So  long  as  she  and  Miss  Foster  are  under 
one  roof,  I  shall  not  have  a  moment  free  from 
anxiety." 

Eleanor  sank  back  in  her  chair.  She  was  si. 
lent;  but  her  eye  betrayed  the  bitter  animation 
of  the  thoughts  passing  behind  them,  thoughts 
evoked  not  so  much  by  what  Manisty  ha4  said, 
as  by  what  he  had  not  said.  All  alarm,  all  con- 
sideration to  be  concentrated  on  one  point? — 
nothing,  and  no  one  else,  to  matter  ? 

But  again  she  fought  down  the  rising  agony, 
refused  to  be  mastered  by  it,  or  to  believe  her 
own  terrors.  Another  wave  of  feeling  rose.  It 
was  so  natural  to  her  to  love  and  help  him! 

''Well,  of  course  I  shall  do  what  you  tell  me! 
I  generally  do — don't  I?  What  are  your  com- 
mands ?" 

He  brought  his  head  nearer  to  hers,  his  brill- 
iant eyes  bent  upon  her  intently : 

"  Never  let  her  be  alone  with  Miss  Foster  ! 
Watch  her.  If  you  see  any  sign  of  persecution — 
if  you  can't  check  it — let  me  know  at  once.  I 
shall  keep  Alice  in  play  of  course.  One  day  we 
can  send  Miss  Foster  into  Rome — perhaps  two. 
Ah  J  hush! — here  she  comes!" 

Eleanor  looked  round.  Lucy  had  just  appeared 
in  the  cool  darkness  of  the  avenue.     She  walked 
slowly  and  with    a   languid  grace,  trailing  her 
217 


white  skirts,  ^he  Shy  rusticity,  the  ftaiik  robust- 
ness of  her  earlier  aspect  were  now  either  gone, 
or  temporarily  merged  in  something  more  ex- 
quisite and  more  appealing.  Her  youth  too  had 
never  been  so  apparent.  She  had  been  too  strong, 
too  self-reliant.  The  touch  of  physical  delicacy 
seemed  to  have  brought  back  the  child. 

Then,  turning  back  to  her  companion,  Eleanor 
saw  the  sudden  softness  in  Manisty's  face — the 
alert  expectancy  of  his  attitude. 

"  What  a  wonderful  oval  of  the  head  and 
cheek  !"  he  said  under  his  breath,  half  to  himself, 
half  to  her.  "  Do  you  know,  Eleanor,  what  she 
reminds  me  of?'* 

Eleanor  shook  her  head. 

"  Of  that  little  head— little  face  rather— that  I 
gave  you  at  Nemi.     Don't  you  see  it  ?" 

*'  I  always  said  she  was  like  your  Greek  bust," 
said  Eleanor  slowly. 

"  Ah,  that  was  in  her  first  archaic  stage.  But 
now  that  she's  more  at  ease  with  us — you  see  ? — 
there's  the  purity  of  line  just  the  same — but  sub- 
tilized— humanized — ^somehow  !  It's  the  change 
from  marble  to  terracotta,  isn't  it?" 

His  fancy  pleased  him,  and  his  smile  turned  to 
hers  for  sympathy.  Then,  springing  up,  he  went 
to  meet  Lucy. 

"  Oh,  there  can  be  nothing  in  his  mind  !  He 
could  not  speak — look — smile — like  that  to  me^'* 
thought  Eleanor  with  passionate  relief. 

Then  as  they  approached,  she  rose,  and  with 
kind  solicitude  forced  Lucy  to  take  her  chair,  on 
218 


the  plea  that  she  herself  v/as  going  back  t(  ihe 
villa. 

Lucy  touched  her  hand  with  timid  gratitude. 
"  I  don't  know  what's  happened  to  me,"  she  said, 
half  wistful,  half  smiling  ;  "  I  never  stayed  in  bed 
to  breakfast  in  my  life  before.  At  Grayridge, 
they'd  think  I  had  gone  out  of  my  mind." 

Eleanor  inquired  if  it  was  an  invariable  sign  of 
lunacy  in  America  to  take  your  breakfast  in  bed. 
Lucy  couldn't  say.  All  she  knew  was  that  no- 
body ever  took  it  so  in  Grayridge,  Vermont,  un- 
less they  were  on  the  point  of  death. 

"  I  should  never  be  any  good,  any  more,"  she 
said,  with  an  energy  that  brought  the  red  back 
to  her  cheeks,  —  "if  they  were  to  spoil  me  at 
home,  as  you  spoil  me  here." 

Eleanor  waved  her  hand,  smiled,  and  went  her 
way. 

As  she  moved  farther  and  farther  away  from 
them  down  the  long  avenue,  she  saw  them  all  the 
time,  though  she  never  once  looked  back — saw 
the  eager  inquiries  of  the  man,  the  modest  re- 
sponsiveness of  the  girl.  She  was  leaving  them 
to  themselves — at  the  bidding  of  her  own  pride 
— and  they  had  the  May  morning  before  them. 
According  to  a  telegram  just  received,  Alice 
Manisty  was  not  expected  till  after  lunch. 

Meanwhile  Manisty  was  talking  of  his  sister  to 
Lucy,  with  coolness,  and  as  much  frankness  as  he 
thought  necessary. 

"  She  is  very  odd — and  very  depressing.  She 
219 


is  now  very  little  with  us.  There  is  no  company 
she  likes  as  well  as  her  own.  But  in  early  days, 
she  and  I  were  great  friends.  We  were  brought 
up  in  an  old  Yorkshire  house  together,  and  a 
queer  pair  we  were.  I  was  never  sent  to  school, 
and  I  got  the  better  of  most  of  my  tutors.  Alice 
was  unmanageable  too,  and  we  spent  most  of  our 
time  rambling  and  reading  as  we  pleased.  Both 
of  us  dreamed  awake  half  our  time.  I  had  shoot- 
ing and  fishing  to  take  me  out  of  myself ;  but 
Alice,  after  my  mother's  death,  lived  with  her 
own  fancies  and  got  less  like  other  people  every 
day.  There  was  a  sort  of  garden-house  in  the 
park,  —  a  lonely,  overgrown  kind  of  place.  We 
put  our  books  there,  and  used  practically  to  live 
there  for  weeks  together.  That  was  just  after  I 
came  into  the  place,  before  I  went  abroad.  Alice 
was  sixteen.  I  can  see  her  now  sitting  in  the 
doorway  of  the  little  house,  hour  after  hour, 
staring  into  the  woods  like  a  somnambulist,  one 
arm  behind  her  head.  One  day  I  said  to  hqr  ; 
*  Alice,  what  are  you  thinking  of?'  'Myself!' 
she  said.  So  then  I  laughed  at  her,  and  teased 
her.  And  she  answered  quite  quietly, '  I  know  it 
is  a  pity — but  I  can't  help  it.'  " 

Lucy's  eyes  were  wide  with  wonder.  "  But  you 
ought  to  have  given  her  something  to  do — or  to 
learn ;  couldn't  she  have  gone  to  school,  or  found 
some  friends  ?" 

"  Oh !  I  dare  say  I  ought  to  have  done  a  thou- 
sand things,"  said  Manisty  impatiently.  "  I  was 
never  a  model  brother,  or  a  model  anything  !     I 

220 


grew  up  for  myself  and  by  myself,  and  I  supposed 
Alice  would  do  the  same.     You  disapprove  ?" 

He  turned  his  sharp,  compelling  eyes  upon 
her,  so  that  Lucy  flinched  a  little.  **  I  shouldn't 
dare,"  she  said  laughing.  "  I  don't  know  enough 
about  it.  But  it's  plain,  isn't  it,  that  girls  of  six- 
teen shouldn't  sit  on  door-steps  and  think  about 
themselves  ?** 

"  What  did  you  think  about  at  sixteen  ?*' 

Her  look  changed. 

"  I  had  mother  then," — she  said  simply. 

"Ah!  then — I'm  afraid  youVe  no  right  to  sit 
in  judgment  upon  us.  Alice  and  I  had  no  moth- 
er— no  one  but  ourselves.  Of  course  all  our  rela- 
tions and  friends  disapproved  of  us.  But  that 
somehow  has  never  made  much  difference  to 
either  of  us.  Does  it  make  much  difference  to 
you  ?  Do  you  mind  if  people  praise  or  blame 
you?  What  does  it  matter  what  anybody  thinks? 
Who  can  know  any  thing  about  you  but  yourself? 
—Eh  ?" 

He  poured  out  his  questions  in  a  hurry,  one 
tumbling  over  the  other.  And  he  had  already 
begun  to  bite  the  inevitable  stalk  of  grass.  Lucy 
as  usual  was  conscious  both  of  intimidation  and 
attraction — she  felt  him  at  once  absurd  and  mag- 
netic. 

"  I'm  sure  we're  meant  to  care  what  people 
think,"  she  said,  with  spirit.  **  It  helps  us.  It 
keeps  us  straight." 

His  eyes  flashed. 

"  You  think  so  ?  Then  we  disagree  entirely— 
2ai 


absolutely-^and  in  toto  !  I  don't  want  to  be  ap- 
proved—  outside  my  literary  work  anyway  —  I 
want  to  be  happy.  It  never  enters  my  head  to 
judge  other  people — why  should  they  judge  me  ?" 

"  But — but " — Then  she  laughed  out,  remember- 
ing his  book,  and  his  political  escapade.  "Aren't 
you  always  judging  other  people  ?" 

"Fighting  them  —  yes!  That's  another  mat- 
ter. But  I  don't  give  myself  superior  airs.  I 
don't  judge — I  just  love — and  hate." 

Her  attention  followed  the  bronzed  expressive 
face,  so  bold  in  outline,  so  delicate  in  detail,  with 
a  growing  fascination. 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  hate  more  than  you  love." 

He  considered  it. 

**  Quite  possible.  It  isn't  an  engaging  world. 
But  I  don*t  hate  readily — I  hate  slowly  and  by 
degrees.  If  anybody  offends  me,  for  instance,  at 
first  I  hardly  feel  it, — it  doesn't  seem  to  matter 
at  all.  Then  it  grows  in  my  mind,  gradually  it 
becomes  a  weight  —  a  burning  fire  —  and  drives 
everything  else  out.  I  hate  the  men,  for  in- 
stance, that  I  hated  last  year  in  England,  much 
worse  now  than  I  did  then  !'* 

She  bit  her  lip,  but  could  not  help  the  broad- 
ening smile,  to  which  his  own  responded. 

"  Do  you  take  any  interest,  Miss  Foster,  in  what 
happened  to  me  last  year  ?" 

"I  often  wonder  whether  you  regret  it,"  she 
said,  rather  shyly.     "Wasn't  it — a  great  pity?" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said  peremptorily;  "I  shall 
recover  all  I  let  slip." 

221 


She  did  not  reply.  But  the  smile  still  trembled 
on  her  lips,  while  she  copied  his  favorite  trick  in 
stripping  the  leaves  from  a  spray  of  box. 

"  You  don't  believe  that  ?" 

"  Does  one  ever  recover  all  one  lets  slip — espe- 
cially in  politics  ?" 

"  Goodness — you  are  a  pessimist !  Why  should 
one  not  recover  it  ?'* 

Her  charming  mouth  curved  still  more  gayly. 

"  I  have  often  heard  my  uncle  say  that  the 
man  who  '  resigns '  is  lost." 

"  Ah  !  —  never  regret  —  never  resign  —  never 
apologize?  We  know  that  creed.  Your  uncle 
must  be  a  man  of  trenchant  opinions.  Do  you 
agree  with  him  ?" 

She  tried  to  be  serious. 

"  I  suppose  one  should  count  the  cost  before — " 

**  Before  one  joins  a  ministry  ?  Yes,  that's  a 
fair  stroke.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  joined 
it.  But  when  I  began  to  think  that  this  particu- 
lar ministry  was  taking  English  society  to  perdi- 
tion, it  was  as  well — wasn't  it? — that  I  should 
leave  it  ?" 

Her  face  suddenly  calmed  itself  to  a  sweet 
gravity. 

"  Oh  yes — yes  ! — if  it  was  as  bad  as  that." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  confess,  anyway,  that  it 
wasn't  as  bad  as  that ! — But  I  will  confess  that  I 
generally  incline  to  hate  my  own  side, — and  to 
love  my  adversaries.  English  Liberals  moreover 
hold  the  ridiculous  opinion  that  the  world  is  to 
be  governed  by  intelligence*  I  couldn't  have 
aaS 


believed  it  of  any  sane  men.  When  I  discovered 
it,  I  left  them.  My  foreign  experience  had  given 
the  lie  to  all  that  And  when  I  left  them,  the 
temptation  to  throw  a  paradox  in  their  faces  was 
irresistible.'* 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  expression  spoke  for 
her. 

"  You  think  me  mad  ?'* 

She  turned  aside — dumb — plucking  at  a  root 
of  cyclamen  beside  her, 

**  Insincere  ?'* 

"  No.  But  you  like  to  startle  people — to  make 
them  talk  about  you  !" 

Her  eyes  were  visible  again  ;  and  he  perceived 
at  once  her  courage  and  her  diffidence. 

"  Perhaps!  English  political  life  runs  so  smooth, 
that  to  throw  in  a  stone  and  make  a  splash  was 
amusing." 

"  But  was  it  fair?"  she  said,  flushing. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Other  people  were  in  earnest,  and  you " 

"  Were  not  ?  Charge  home.  I  am  prepared," 
he  said,  smiling. 

"  You  talk  now — as  though  you  were  a  Catholic 
— and  you  are  not,  you  don't  believe,"  she  said 
suddenly,  in  a  deep,  low  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  a  smiling 
silence.  His  lips  were  ready  to  launch  a  reckless 
sentence  or  two ;  but  they  refrained.  Her  atti- 
tude meanwhile  betrayed  an  unconscious  dread — 
like  a  child  that  fears  a  blow. 

*'  You  charming  saint !" — he  thought ;  surprised 
224 


at  his  own  feeling  of  pleasure.  Pleasure  in  what? 
— in  the  fact  that  however  she  might  judge  his 
opinions,  she  was  clearly  interested  in  the  holder 
of  them  ? 

"What  does  one's  own  point  of  view  matter?'* 
he  said  gently.  "  I  believe  what  I  can, — and  as 
long  as  I  can — sometimes  for  a  whole  twenty- 
four  hours  !  Then  a  big  doubt  comes  along,  and 
sends  me  floundering.  But  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  The  case  is  quite  simple.  The  world 
can't  get  on  without  morals;  and  Catholicism, 
Anglicanism  too — the  religions  of  authority  in 
short — are  the  great  guardians  of  morals.  They 
are  the  binding  forces — the  forces  making  for 
solidarity  and  continuity.  Your  cocksure,  peer- 
ing Protestant  is  the  dissolvent— the  force  mak- 
ing for  ruin.  What's  his  private  judgment  to 
me,  or  mine  to  him  ?  But  for  the  sake  of  it,  he'll 
make  everything  mud  and  puddle  !  Of  course 
you  inay  say  to  me — it  is  perfectly  open  to  you 
to  say  "—he  looked  away  from  her,  half  forgetting 
her,  addressing  with  animation  and  pugnacity 
an  imaginary  opponent — "  what  do  morals  mat- 
ter ? — how  do  you  know  that  the  present  moral 
judgments  of  the  world  represent  any  ultimate 
truth?  Ah!  well" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
— "  I  can't  follow  you  there.  Black  may  be 
really  white — and  white  black  ;  but  I'm  not  going 
to  admit  it.  It  would  make  me  too  much  of  a 
dupe.  I  take  my  stand  on  morals.  And  if  you 
give  me  morals,  you  must  give  me  the  only  force 
that  can  guarantee  them, — Catholicism,  more  or 
225 


less: — and  dogma, —and  ritual, — and  supersti- 
tion,—  and  all  the  foolish  ineffable  things  that 
bind  mankind  together,  and  send  them  to  'face 
the  music'  in  this  world  and  the  next !" 

She  sat  silent,  with  twitching  lips,  excited,  yet 
passionately  scornful  and  antagonistic.  Thoughts 
of  her  home,  of  that  Puritan  piety  amid  which 
she  had  been  brought  up,  flashed  thick  and  fast 
through  her  mind.  Suddenly  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  to  hide  a  fit  of  laughter  that 
had  overtaken  her. 

"  All  that  amuses  you  ?" — said  Manisty,  breath- 
ing a  little  faster. 

"No — oh!  no.  But — I  was  thinking  of  my 
uncle  —  of  the  people  in  our  valley  at  home. 
What  you  said  of  Protestants  seemed  to  me,  all 
at  once,  so  odd — so  ridiculous  !" 

"Did  it?  Tell  me  then  about  the  people  in 
your  valley  at  home." 

And  turning  on  his  elbows  beside  her,  he  put 
her  through  a  catechism  as  to  her  village,  her 
uncle,  her  friends.  She  resisted  a  little,  for  the 
brusque  assurance  of  his  tone  still  sounded  oddly 
in  her  American  ear.  But  he  was  not  easy  to 
resist ;  and  when  she  had  yielded  she  soon  dis- 
covered that  to  talk  to  him  was  a  no  less  breath- 
less and  absorbing  business  than  to  listen  to 
him.  He  pounced  on  the  new,  the  character- 
istic, the  local ;  he  drew  out  of  her  what  he 
wanted  to  know  ;  he  made  her  see  her  own  trees 
and  fields,  the  figures  of  her  home,  with  new 
sharpness,  so  quick,  so  dramatic,  so  voracious, 
336 


one    might   almost   say,  were   his   own   percep- 
tions. 

Especially  did  he  make  her  tell  him  of  the  New 
England  winter ;  of  the  long  pauses  of  its  snow- 
bound life ;  its  whirling  winds  and  drifts ;  its 
snapping,  crackling  frosts  ;  the  lonely  farms,  and 
the  deep  sleigh-tracks  amid  the  white  wilderness, 
that  still  in  the  winter  silence  bind  these  home- 
steads to  each  other  and  the  nation  ;  the  strange 
gleams  of  moonrise  and  sunset  on  the  cold  hills  ; 
the  strong  dark  armies  of  the  pines  ;  the  grace  of 
the  stripped  birches.  Above  all,  must  she  talk  to 
him  of  the  people  in  these  farms,  the  frugal,  or 
silent',  or  brooding  people  of  the  hills  ;  honorable, 
hard,  knotted,  prejudiced,  believing  folk,  whose 
lives  and  fates,  whose  spiritual  visions  and  mad- 
nesses, were  entwined  with  her  own  young  mem- 
ories and  deepest  affections. 

Figure  after  figure,  story  after  story,  did  he 
draw  from  her,— warm  from  the  hidden  fire  of 
her  own  strenuous,  loving  life.  Once  or  twice 
she  spoke  of  her  mother — like  one  drawing  a  veil 
for  an  instant  from  a  holy  of  holies.  He  felt  and 
saw  the  burning  of  a  sacred  fire ;  then  the  veil 
dropped,  nor  would  it  lift  again  for  any  word  of 
his.  And  every  now  and  then,  a  phrase  that 
startled  him  by  its  quality,  —  its  suggestions. 
Presently  he  was  staring  at  her  with  his  dark 
absent  eyes. 

"Heavens  !" — he  was  thinking — "what  a  wom- 
an there  is  in  her  ! — what  a  nature  !" 

The  artist — the  poet — the  lover  of  things  sig- 
227 


nificant  and  moving, — all  these  were  stirred  in 
him  as  he  listened  to  her,  as  he  watched  her 
young  and  noble  beauty. 

But,  in  the  end,  he  would  not  grant  her  much, 
argu  mentatively. . 

"You  make  me  see  strange  things — magnifi- 
cent things,  if  you  like !  But  your  old  New  Eng- 
land saints  and  dreamers  are  not  your  last  word 
in  America.  They  tell  me  your  ancestral  Protes- 
tantisms are  fast  breaking  down.  Your  churches 
are  turning  into  concert  and  lecture  rooms. 
Catholicism  is  growing  among  you,  —  science 
gaining  on  the  quack  medicines !  But  there — 
there  —  I'll  not  prate.  Forgive  me.  This  has 
been  a  fascinating  half-hour.  Only,  take  care ! 
I  have  seen  you  a  Catholic  once,  for  three  min- 
utes !'* 

"When?" 

"  In  St.  Peter's." 

Hife  Ibok,  stniling,  provocative,  drove  home  his 
shaft. 

"  I  saw  you  overthrown.  The  great  tradition 
swept  upon  you.     You  bowed  to  it, — you  felt !" 

She  made  no  reply.  Far  within  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  kihd  of  tremor.  The  personality  be- 
side her  seemed  to  be  laying  an  intimate,  en- 
croaching hand  upon  her  own,  and  her  maiden- 
liness  shrank  before  it. 

She  threw  herself  hastily  upon  other  subjects. 
Presently,  he  found  to  his  surprise  that  she  was 
speaking  to  him  of  his  book. 
228 


"It  would  be  so  sad  if  it  were  not  finished,"  she 
said  timidly.     "  Mrs.  Burgoyne  would  feel  it  so." 

His  expression  changed. 

"  You  think  Mrs.  Burgoyne  cares  about  it  so 
much  ?" 

"  But  she  worked  so  hard  for  it  !" — cried  Lucy, 
indignant  with  something  in  his  manner,  though 
she  could  not  have  defined  what.  Her  mind,  in- 
deed, was  full  of  vague  and  generous  misgivings 
on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne.  First  she  had 
been  angry  with  Mr.  Manisty  for  what  had  seemed 
to  her  neglect  and  ingratitude.  Now  she  was 
somehow  dissatisfied  with  herself  too. 

"  She  worked  too  hard,"  said  Manisty  gravely. 
"  It  is  a  good  thing  the  pressure  has  been  taken 
off.  Have  you  found  out  yet,  Miss  Foster,  what 
a  remarkable  woman  my  cousin  is?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  sharp  look  of  inquiry. 

"  I  admire  her  all  day  long,"  cried  Lucy,  warmly. 

"That's  right,"  said  Manisty  slowly — "that's 
right.     Do  you  know  her  history  ?" 

"  Mr.  Brooklyn  told  me " 

"  He  doesn't  know  very  much, — shall  I  tell  it 
you  ?" 

"If  you  ought — if  Mrs.  Burgoyne  would  like  it," 
said  Lucy,  hesitating.  There  was  a  chivalrous 
feeling  in  the  girl's  mind  that  she  was  too  new 
an  acquaintance,  that  she  had  no  right  to  the 
secrets  of  this  friendship,  and  Manisty  no  right 
to  speak  of  them. 

But  Manisty  took  no  notice.  With  half-shut 
eyes,  like  a  man  looking  into  the  past,  he  began 
229 


to  describe  his  cousin  ;  first  as  a  girl  in  her  father's 
home  ;  then  in  her  married  life,  silent,  unhappy, 
gentle ;  afterwards  in  the  dumb  years  of  hei 
irreparable  grief ;  and  finally  in  this  last  phase  of 
intellectual  and  spiritual  energy,  which  had  been 
such  an  amazement  to  himself,  which  had  first 
revealed  to  him  indeed  the  true  Eleanor. 

He  spoke  slowly,  with  a  singular  and  scrupu- 
lous choice  of  words  ;  building  up  the  image  of 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  life  and  mind  with  an  insight 
and  a  delicacy  which  presently  held  his  listener 
spellbound.  Several  times  Lucy  felt  herself  flood- 
ed with  hot  color. 

"  Does  he  guess  so  much  about — about  us  all  ?" 
she  asked  herself  with  a  secret  excitement. 

Suddenly  Manisty  said,  with  an  entire  change 
of  tone,  springing  to  his  feet  as  he  did  so  : 

"In  short.  Miss  Foster — my  cousin  Eleanor  is 
one  of  the  ablest  and  dearest  of  women — and  she 
and  I  have  been  completely  wasting  each  other's 
time  this  winter !" 

Lucy  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  We  have  been  too  kind 
to  each  other  !" 

He  waited,  studying  his  companion's  face  with 
a  hard,  whimsical  look. 

"  Eleanor  gave  my  book  too  much  sympathy. 
It  wanted  brutality.  I  have  worn  her  out — and 
my  book  is  in  a  mess.  The  best  thing  I  could  do 
for  us  both — was  to  cut  it  short." 

Lucy  was  uncomfortably  silent. 

"  There's  no  use  in  talking  about  it,"  Manisty 
230 


went  on,  impatiently,  with  a  shake  of  his  great 
shoulders  ;  "  I  am  not  meant  to  work  in  partner- 
ship. A  word  of  blame  depresses  me  ;  and  I  am 
made  a  fool  by  praise.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  If 
only  Eleanor  could  understand — that  it's  my  own 
fault — and  I  know  it's  my  own  fault — and  not 
think  me  unjust  and  unkind.     Miss  Foster " 

Lucy  looked  up.  In  the  glance  she  encountered, 
the  vigorous  and  wilful  personality  beside  her 
seemed  to  bring  all  its  force  to  bear  upon  her- 
self— 

"  —  if  Eleanor  talks  to  you — " 

"  She  never  does  !"  cried  Lucy. 

"  She  might,"  said  Manisty,  coolly.  **  She 
might.  If  she  does,  persuade  her  of  my  admira- 
tion, my  gratitude  I  Tell  her  that  I  know  very 
well  that  I  am  not  worth  her  help.  Her  inspira- 
tion would  have  led  any  other  man  to  success. 
It  only  failed  because  I  was  I.  I  hate  to  seem  to 
discourage  and  disavow  what  I  once  accepted  so 
eagerly. — But  a  man  must  find  out  his  own  mis- 
takes— and  thrash  his  own  blunders.  She  was  too 
kind  to  thrash  them  —so  I  have  appointed  Neal  to 
the  office.     Do  you  understand  ?" 

She  rose,  full  of  wavering  approvals  and  disap- 
provals, seized  by  him,  —  and  feeling  with  Mrs. 
Burgoyne. 

"  I  understand  only  a  very  little,"  she  said,  lift- 
ing her  clear  eyes  to  his  ;  "  except  that  I  never 
saw  any  one  I — I  cared  for  so  much,  in  so  short  a 
time — as  Mrs.  Burgoyne." 

"  Ah  !  care  for  her  !"  he  said,  in  another  voice, 
231 


with  another  aspect.  "  Go  on  caring  for  her  . 
She  needs  it." 

They  walked  on  together  towards  the  villa,  for 
Alfredo  was  on  the  balcony  signalling  to  them 
that  the  twelve-o'clock  breakfast  was  ready. 

On  the  way  Manisty  turned  upon  her. 

"  Now,  you  are  to  be  obedient !  You  are  not 
to  pay  any  attention  to  my  sister.  She  is  not  a 
happy  person — but  you  are  not  to  be  sorry  for 
her.  You  can't  understand  her  ;  and  I  beg  you 
will  not  try.  You  are,  please,  to  leave  her  alone. 
Can  I  trust  you  ?" 

"  Hadn  t  you  better  send  me  into  Rome?"  said 
Lucy,  laughing  and  embarrassed. 

*'I  always  intended  to  do  so,"  said  Manisty 
shortly. 

Towards  five  o'clock,  Alice  Manisty  arrived, 
accompanied  by  an  elderly  maid.  Lucy,  before 
she  escaped  into  the  garden,  was  aware  of  a  very 
tall  woman,  possessing  a  harshly  handsome  face, 
black  eyes,  and  a  thin  long-limbed  frame  These 
black  eyes,  uneasily  bright,  searched  the  salon, 
as  she  entered  it,  only  to  fasten,  with  a  kind  of 
grip,  in  which  there  was  no  joy,  upon  her  brother. 
Lucy  saw  her  kiss  him,  with  a  cold  perfunctori- 
ness,  bowed  herself,  as  her  name  was  nervously 
pronounced  by  Miss  Manisty,  and  then  withdrew. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  in  Rome  for  the  afternoon. 

But  at  dinner  they  all  met,  and  Lucy  could 
satisfy  some  of  the  curiosity  that  burned  in  her 
very  feminine  mind.  Alice  Manisty  was  dressed 
232 


in  black  lace  and  satin,  and  carried  herself  with 
distinction.  Her  hair,  black  like  her  brother's, 
though  with  a  fine  line  of  gray  here  and  there, 
was  of  enormous  abundance,  and  she  were  it 
heavily  coiled  round  her  head  in  a  mode  which 
gave  particular  relief  to  the  fire  and  restlessness 
of  the  eyes  which  flashed  beneath  it.  Beside  her, 
Eleanor  Burgoyne,  though  she  too  was  rather 
tall  than  short,  suffered  a  curious  eclipse.  The 
plaintive  distinction  that  made  the  charm  of 
Eleanor's  expression  and  movements  seemed  for 
the  moment  to  mean  and  say  nothing,  beside  the 
tragic  splendor  of  Alice  Manisty. 

The  dinner  was  not  agreeable.  Manisty  was 
clearly  ill  at  ease,  and  seething  with  inward  an- 
noyance; Miss  Manisty  had  the  air  of  a  fright- 
ened mouse ;  Alice  Manisty  talked  not  at  all,  and 
ate  nothing  except  some  poached  eggs  that  she 
had  apparently  ordered  for  herself  before  din- 
ner; and  Eleanor — chattering  of  her  afternoon 
in  Rome — had  to  carry  through  the  business  as 
best  she  could,  with  occasional  help  from  Lucy. 

From  the  first  it  was  unpleasantly  evident  to 
Manisty  that  his  sister  took  notice  of  Miss  Foster. 
Almost  her  only  words  at  table  were  addressed  to 
the  girl  sitting  opposite  to  her ;  and  her  roving 
eyes  returned  again  and  again  to  Lucy's  fresh 
young  face  and  quiet  brow. 

After  dinner  Manisty  followed  the  ladies  into 
the  salon,  and  asked  his  aunt's  leave  to  smoke  his 
cigarette  with  them. 

Lucy  wondered  what  had  passed  between  him 
I  233 


and  his  sister  before  dinner.  He  was  polite  to 
her;  and  yet  she  fancied  that  their  relations 
were  already  strained. 

Presently,  as  Lucy  was  busy  with  some  em- 
broidery on  one  of  the  settees  against  the  wall  of 
the  salon,  she  was  conscious  of  Alice  Manisty's 
approach.  The  new-comer  sat  down  beside  her, 
bent  over  her  work,  asked  her  a  few  low,  deep- 
voiced  questions.  Those  strange  eyes  fastened 
upon  her, — stared  at  her  indeed. 

But  instantly  Manisty  was  there,  cigarette  in 
hand,  standing  between  them.  He  distracted  his 
sister's  attention,  and  at  the  same  moment  Elea- 
nor called  to  Lucy  from  the  piano. 

"Won't  you  turn  over  for  me?  I  can't  play 
them  by  heart." 

Lucy  wondered  at  the  scantiness  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne's  musical  memory  that  night.  She,  who 
could  play  by  the  hour  without  note,  on  most  oc- 
casions, showed  herself,  on  this,  tied  and  bound 
to  the  printed  page;  and  that  page  must  be 
turned  for  her  by  Lucy,  and  Lucy  only. 

Meanwhile  Manisty  sat  beside  his  sister  smok- 
ing, throwing  first  the  left  leg  over  the  right, 
then  the  right  leg  over  the  left,  and  making  at- 
tempts at  conversation  with  her,  that  Eleanor 
positively  must  not  see,  lest  music  and  deco- 
rum both  break  down  in  a  wreck  of  nervous 
laughter. 

Alice    Manisty    scarcely    responded ;    she   sat 
motionless,  her  wild  black  head  bent  like  that  of 
a  Maenad  at  watch,  her  gaze  fixed,  her  long  thin 
234 


hands  grasping  the  arm  of  her  chair  with  uncon- 
scious force. 

"  What  is  she  thinking  of?"  thought  Lucy  once, 
with  a  momentary  shiver.     "  Herself?" 

When  bedtime  came,  Manisty  gave  the  ladies 
their  candles.  As  he  bade  good-night  to  Lucy, 
he  said  in  her  ear :  "  You  said  you  wished  to  see 
the  Lateran  Museum.  My  aunt  will  send  Ben- 
son with  you  to-morrow." 

His  tone  did  not  ask  whether  she  wished  for 
the  arrangement,  but  simply  imposed  it. 

Then,  as  Eleanor  approached  him.  he  raised 
his  shoulders  with  a  gesture  that  only  she  saw, 
and  led  her  a  few  steps  apart  in  the  dimly  lighted 
anteroom,  where  the  candles  were  placed. 

"  She  wants  the  most  impossible  things,  my 
dear  lady,"  he  said  in  low-voiced  despair — "  things 
I  can  no  more  do  than  fly  over  the  moon  !" 

"  Edward !" — said  his  sister  from  the  open  door 
of  the  salon — "I  should  like  some  further  con- 
versation with  you  before  I  go  to  bed." 

Manisty  with  the  worst  grace  in  the  world  saw 
his  aunt  and  Eleanor  to  their  rooms,  and  then 
went  back  to  surrender  himself  to  Alice.  He 
was  a  man  who  took  family  relations  hardly,  im- 
patient of  the  slightest  bond  that  was  not  of  his 
own  choosing.  Yet  it  was  Eleanor's  judgment 
that,  considering  his  temperament,  he  had  not 
been  a  bad  brother  to  this  wild  sister.  He  had 
spent  both  heart  and  thought  upon  her  case; 
and  at  the  root  of  his  relation  to  her,  a  deep  and 
painful  pity  was  easily  to  be  divined. 
235 


Vast  as  the  villa  apartment  was,  the  rooms 
were  all  on  one  floor,  and  the  doors  fitted  badly. 
Lucy's  sleep  was  haunted  for  long  by  a  distant 
sound  of  voices,  generally  low  and  restrained, 
but  at  moments  rising  and  sharpening  as  though 
their  owners  forgot  the  hour  and  the  night.  In 
the  morning  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been 
last  conscious  of  a  burst  of  weeping,  far  distant 
' — then  of  a  sudden  silence.  .  .  . 

The  following  day,  Lucy  in  Benson's  charge 
paid  her  duty  to  the  Sophocles  of  the  Lateran 
Museum,  and,  armed  with  certain  books  lent  her 
by  Manisty,  went  wandering  among  the  art  and 
inscriptions  of  Christian  Rome.  She  came  home, 
inexplicably  tired,  through  a  glorious  Campagna, 
splashed  with  poppies,  embroidered  with  mari- 
gold and  vetch;  she  climbed  the  Alban  slopes 
from  the  heat  below,  and  rejoiced  in  the  keener 
air  of  the  hills,  and  the  freshness  of  th.Q  ponente, 
as  she  drove  from  the  station  to  the  villa. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  leaning  over  the  balcony 
looking  out  for  her.  Lucy  ran  up  to  her,  aston- 
ished at  her  own  eagerness  of  foot,  at  the  breath 
of  home  which  seemed  to  issue  from  the  great 
sun-beaten  house. 

Eleanor  looked  pale  and  tired,  but  she  took 
the  girl's  hand  kindly. 

"  Oh !  you  must  keep  all  your  gossip  for  din- 
ner !"  said  Eleanor,  as  they  greeted.  "  It  will 
help  us  through.  It  has  been  rather  a  hard 
day." 

336 


Lucy's  face  showed  her  sympathy,  and  the 
question  she  did  not  like  to  put  into  words. 

"  Oh,  it  has  been  a  wrestle  all  day,"  said  Elea- 
nor wearily.  "  She  wants  Mr.  Manisty  to  do  cer- 
tain  things  with  her  property,  that  as  her  trustee 
he  cannot  do.  She  has  the  maddest  ideas — she  h 
mad.     And  when  she  is  crossed,  she  is  terrible." 

At  dinner  Lucy  did  her  best  to  lighten  the  at- 
mosphere, being  indeed  most  truly  sorry  for  her 
poor  friends  and  their  dilemma.  But  her  pleas- 
ant girlish  talk  seemed  to  float  above  an  abyss 
of  trouble  and  discomfort,  which  threatened  con- 
stantly to  swallow  it  up. 

Alice  Manisty  indeed  responded.  She  threw 
off  her  silence,  and  talked  of  Rome,  exclusively 
to  Lucy  and  with  Lucy,  showing  in  her  talk  a 
great  deal  of  knowledge  ai^d  a  great  deal  of  fine 
taste,  mingled  with  occasional  violence  and  ex- 
travagance. Her  eyes  indeed  were  wilder  than 
ever.  They  shone  with  a  miserable  intensity, 
that  became  a  positive  glare  once  or  twice,  when 
Manisty  addressed  her.  Her  whole  aspect  breath- 
ed a  tragic  determination,  crossed  with  an  anger 
she  was  hardly  able  to  restrain.  Lucy  noticed 
that  she  never  spoke  to  or  answered  her  brother 
if  she  could  help  it. 

After  dinner  Lucy  found  herself  the  object  of 
various  embarrassing  overtures  on  the  part  of 
the  new-comer.  But  on  each  occasion  Manisty 
interposed  at  first  adroitly,  then  roughly.  On 
the  last  occasion  Alice  Manisty  sprang  to  her 
feet,  went  to  the  side -table  where  the  candles 
237 


were  placed,  disappeared  and  did  not  return. 
Manisty,  his  aunt,  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  drew  to- 
gether in  a  corner  of  the  salon  discussing  the 
events  of  the  day  in  low  anxious  voices.  Lucy 
thought  herself  in  the  way,  and  went  to  bed. 

After  some  hours  of  sleep,  Lucy  awoke,  con- 
scious of  movement  somewhere  near  her.  With 
the  advent  of  the  hot  weather  she  had  been 
moved  to  a  room  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  villa, 
in  one  of  two  small  wings  jutting  out  from  the 
fagade.  She  had  locked  her  door,  but  the  side 
window  of  her  room,  which  overlooked  the  bal- 
cony towards  the  lake,  was  open,  and  slight 
sounds  came  from  the  balcony.  Springing  up 
she  crept  softly  towards  the  window.  The  wood- 
en shutters  had  been  drawn  forward,  but  both 
they  and  the  casements  were  ajar. 

Through  the  chink  she  saw  a  strange  sight. 
On  the  step  leading  from  the  house  to  the  ter- 
race of  the  balcony  sat  Alice  Manisty.  Her  head 
was  thrown  back  against  the  wall  of  the  villa, 
and  her  hands  were  clasped  upon  her  knee.  Her 
marvellous  hair  fell  round  her  shoulders,  and  a 
strange  illumination,  in  which  a  first  gleam  of 
dawn  mingled  with  the  moonlight,  struck  upon 
the  white  face  and  white  hands  emerging  from  the 
darkness  of  her  hair  and  of  her  loose  black  dress. 

Was  she  asleep  ?     Lucy,  holding  back  so  as  not 
to  be  seen,  peered  with   held  breath.     No  ! — the 
large  eyes  were  wide  open,  though   it  seenaed  to 
tucy  that  they  saw  nothing. 
238 


Minute  after  minute  passed.  The  figure  on  the 
terrace  sat  motionless.  There  were  two  statues 
on  either  side  of  her,  a  pair  of  battered  round- 
limbed  nymphs,  glorified  by  the  moonlight  into 
a  grace  and  poetry  not  theirs  by  day.  They 
seemed  to  be  looking  down  upon  the  woman  at 
their  feet  in  a  soft  bewilderment — wondering  at 
a  creature  so  little  like  themselves;  while  from 
the  terrace  came  up  the  scent  of  the  garden, 
heavy  with  roses  and  bedrenched  with  dew. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  Lucy  as  though  that 
white  face,  those  intolerable  eyes,  awoke — turned 
towards  herself,  penetrated  her  room,  pursued 
her.  The  figure  moved,  and  there  was  a  low 
sound  of  words.  Her  window  was  in  truth  inac- 
cessible from  the  terrace ;  but  in  a  panic  fear, 
Lucy  threw  herself  on  the  casement  and  the  shut- 
ters, closed  them  and  drew  the  bolts  ;  as  noise- 
lessly as  she  could,  still  not  without  some  noise. 
Then  hurrying  to  her  bed,  she  threw  herself  upon 
it,  panting — in  a  terror  she  could  neither  explain 
nor  compose. 


M 


CHAPTER    X 

Y  dear  lady — there's  nothing  to  be  doncj 
with  her  whatever.  She  will  not  yield 
one  inch — and  I  cannot.  But  one  thing 
at  last  is  clear  to  me.  The  mischief  has  made 
progress — I  fear,  great  progress." 

Manisty  had  drawn  his  cousin  into  the  garden, 
and  they  were  pacing  the  avenue.  With  his  last 
words  he  turned  upon  her  a  grave  significant 
look. 

The  cause  of  Alice  Manisty's  visit,  indeed,  had 
turned  out  to  be  precisely  what  Manisty  supposed. 
The  sister  had  come  to  Marinata  in  order  to  per- 
suade her  brother,  as  one  of  the  trustees  of  her 
property,  to  co-operate  with  her  in  bestowing 
some  of  her  money  on  the  French  artist,  Mon- 
sieur Octave  Vacherot,  to  whom,  as  she  calmly 
avowed,  her  affections  were  indissolubly  attached, 
though  she  did  not  ever  intend  to  marry  him,  nor 
indeed  to  see  much  of  him  in  the  future.  "I  shall 
never  do  him  the  disservice  of  becoming  his  wife" 
— she  announced,  with  her  melancholy  eyes  full 
upon  her  brother — "But  money  is  of  no  use  to 
me.  He  is  young  and  can  employ  it."  Manisty 
240 


inquired  whether  the  gentleman  in  question  was 
aware  of  what  she  proposed.  Alice  replied  that 
if  money  were  finally  settled  upon  him  he  would 
accept  it ;  whereas  his  pride  did  not  allow  him  to 
receive  perpetual  small  sums  at  her  hands.  "But 
if  I  settle  a  definite  sum  upon  him,  he  will  take 
it  as  an  endowment  of  his  genius.  It  would  be 
giving  to  the  public,  not  to  him.  His  great  ideas 
would  get  their  chance." 

Manisty,  in  his  way  as  excitable  as  she,  had 
evidently  found  it  difficult  to  restrain  himself 
when  M.  Octave  Vacherot's  views  as  to  his  own 
value  were  thus  explained  to  him.  Nevertheless 
he  seemed  to  have  shown  on  the  whole  a  credita- 
ble patience,  to  have  argued  with  his  sister,  to 
have  even  offered  her  money  of  his  own,  for  the 
temporary  supply  of  M.  Vacherot's  necessities. 
But  all  to  no  avail ;  and  in  the  end  it  had  come  of 
course  to  his  flatly  refusing  any  help  of  his  to 
such  a  scheme,  and  without  it  the  scheme  fell. 
For  their  father  had  been  perfectly  well  aware 
of  his  daughter's  eccentricities,  and  had  placed 
her  portion,  by  his  will,  in  the  hands  of  two  trus- 
tees, of  whom  her  brother  was  one,  without 
whose  consent  she  could  not  touch  the  capital. 

"  It  always  seemed  to  her  a  monstrous  ar- 
rangement," said  Manisty,  "  and  I  can  see  now  it 
galls  her  to  the  quick  to  have  to  apply  to  me,  in 
this  way.  I  don't  wonder — but  I  can't  help  it. 
The  duty's  there — worse  luck! — and  I've  got  to 
face  it,  for  my  father's  sake.  Besides,  if  I  were 
to  consent,  the  other  fellow — an  old  cousin  of 
Q  241 


ours — would  never  dream  of  doing  it.  So  what's 
the  good  ?  All  the  same,  it  makes  me  desperately 
anxious,  to  see  the  effect  that  this  opposition  of 
mine  produces  upon  her." 

*'  I  saw  yesterday  that  she  must  have  been  cry- 
ing in  the  night " — said  Eleanor. 

Her  words  evoked  some  emotion  in  Manisty. 

"  She  cried  in  my  presence,  and  I  believe  she 
cried  most  of  the  night  afterwards," — he  said  in 
hasty  pain.     "  That  beast  Vacherot !" 

"Why  doesn't  she  marry  him  !" 

"  For  the  noblest  of  reasons  ! — She  knows  that 
her  brain  is  clouded,  and  she  won't  let  him  run 
the  risk." 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  quick  sympathy.  She  saw 
that  his  poetic  susceptibility,  the  romantic  and 
dramatic  elements  in  him  were  all  alive  to  his 
sister's  case.  How  critically,  sharply  perceptive 
he  was — or  could  be — with  regard  apparently  to 
everybody  in  the  world — save  one  !  Often — as 
they  talked — her  heart  stirred  in  this  way,  far 
out  of  sight,  like  a  fluttering  and  wounded  thing. 

"  It  is  the  strangest  madness  " — said  Manisty 
presently — "  Many  people  would  say  it  was  only 
extravagance  of  imagination  unless  they  knew — 
what  I  know.  She  told  me  last  night,  that  she 
was  not  one  person  but  two — and  the  other  self 
was  a  brother  ! — not  the  least  like  me — who  con- 
stantly told  her  what  to  do,  and  what  not  to  do. 
She  calls  him  quite  calmly  "  my  brother  John  " — 
"  my  heavenly  brother."  She  says  that  he  often 
does  strange  things,  things  that  she  does  not  un- 
243 


derstand  ;  but  that  he  tells  her  the  most  wonder- 
ful secrets  ;  and  that  he  is  a  greater  poet  than 
any  now  living.  She  says  that  the  first  time  she 
perceived  him  as  separate  from  herself  was  one 
day  in  Venice,  when  a  friend  came  for  her  to  the 
hotel.  She  went  out  with  the  friend,  or  seemed 
to  go  out  with  her — and  then  suddenly  she  per- 
ceived that  she  was  lying  on  her  bed,  and  that 
the  other  Alice — had  been  John  !  He  looks  just 
herself — but  for  the  eyes.  The  weirdness  of  her 
look  as  she  tells  these  things  !  But  she  expresses 
herself  often  with  an  extraordinary  poetry.  I 
envy  her  the  words,  and  the  phrases ! — It  seemed 
to  me  once  or  twice,  that  she  had  all  sorts  of 
things  I  wished  to  have.  If  one  could  only  be  a 
little  mad — one  might  write  good  books  !" 

He  turned  upon  his  companion,  with  a  wild 
brilliance  in  his  own  blue  eyes,  that,  taken  to- 
gether with  the  subject  of  their  conversation  and 
his  many  points  of  physical  likeness  to  his  sister, 
sent  an  uncomfortable  thrill  through  Eleanor. 
Nevertheless,  as  she  knew  well,  at  the  very  bottom 
of  Manisty's  being,  there  lay  a  remarkable  fund 
of  ordinary  capacity,  an  invincible  sanity  in  short, 
which  had  always  so  far  rescued  him  in  the  long 
run  from  that  element  which  was  extravagance 
in  him,  and  madness  in  his  sister. 

And  certainly  nothing  could  have  been  more 
reasonable,  strong  and  kind,  than  his  further 
talk  about  his  sister.  He  confided  to  his  cousin 
that  his  whole  opinion  of  Alice's  state  had 
phanged  ;  that  certain  symptoms  for  which  he 
243 


had  been  warned  to  be  on  the  watch  had  in  his 
judgment  appeared;  that  he  had  accordingly  writ- 
ten to  a  specialist  in  Rome,  asking  him  to  come 
and  see  Alice,  without  warning,  on  the  following 
day  ;  and  that  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  persuade 
her  without  too  much  conflict  to  accept  medical 
watching  and  treatment  for  a  time. 

"  I  feel  that  it  is  plotting  against  her,"  he  said, 
not  without  feeling,  "  but  it  has  gone  too  far — 
she  is  not  safe  for  herself  or  others.  One  of  the 
most  anxious  things  is  this  night  wandering, 
which  has  taken  possession  of  her.  Did  you  hear 
her  last  night?" 

"Last  night?" — said  Eleanor,  startled. 

"  I  had  been  warned  by  Dalgetty,"  said  Man- 
isty.  "  And  between  three  and  four  I  thought  I 
heard  sounds  somewhere  in  the  direction  of  the 
Albano  balcony.  So  I  crept  out  through  the 
salon  into  the  library.  And  there,  sitting  on  the 
step  of  the  glass  passage — was  Alice — looking  as 
though  she  were  turned  to  marble — and  staring 
at  Miss  Foster's  room  !  To  my  infinite  relief  I 
saw  that  Miss  Foster's  shutters  and  windows 
were  fast  closed.  But  I  felt  I  could  not  leave 
Alice  there.  I  made  a  little  noise  in  the  library 
to  warn  her,  and  then  I  came  out  upon  her.  She 
showed  no  surprise — nor  did  I.  I  asked  her  to 
come  and  look  at  the  sunrise  striking  over  the 
Campagna.  She  made  no  objection,  and  I  took 
her  through  my  room  and  the  salon  to  the  salon 
balcony.  The  sight  was  marvellous  ;  and  first, 
it  gave  her  pleasure — she  said  a  few  things  about 
244 


it  with  her  old  grace  and  power.  Then — in  a 
minute  —  a  veil  seemed  to  fall  over  her  eyes. 
The  possessed,  miserable  look  came  back.  She 
remembered  that  she  hated  me — that  I  had 
thwarted  her.  Yet  I  was  able  to  persuade  her  to 
go  back  to  her  room.  I  promised  that  we  would 
have  more  talk  to-day.  And  when  she  had  safely 
shut  her  own  door — you  know  that  tiled  ante- 
room, that  leads  to  her  room  ? — I  found  the  key 
of  it,  and  locked  it  safely  from  outside.  That's 
one  access  to  her.  The  other  is  through  the 
room  in  which  Dalgetty  was  sleeping.  I'd  have 
given  a  good  deal  to  warn  Dalgetty,  but  I  dared 
not  risk  it.  She  had  not  heard  Alice  go  out 
by  the  anteroom,  but  she  told  me  the  other  day 
the  smallest  sound  in  her  own  room  woke  her. 
So  I  felt  tolerably  safe,  and  I  went  to  bed. — 
Eleanor  !  do  you  think  that  child  saw  or  knew 
anything  of  it  ?" 

"Lucy  Foster?     I  noticed  nothing." 

The  name,  even  on  her  own  lips,  struck  Elea- 
nor's aching  sense  like  a  sound  of  fate.  It  seemed 
now  as  if  through  every  conversation  she  foresaw 
it — that  all  talk  led  up  to  it. 

"  She  looks  unlike  herself  still,  this  morning — 
don't  you  think  ?"  said  Manisty,  in  disquiet. 

"Very  possibly  she  got  some  chill  at  Nemi — 
some  slight  poison — which  will  pass  off." 

"  Well,  now  *' — he   said,  after   a   pause — "  howl 
shall  we  get  through  the  day?     I  shall  have  an- 
other scene  with  Alice,  I  suppose.     I  don't  see 
how  it  is  to  be  avoided.     Meanwhile — will  you 
245 


keep  Miss  Foster  here?" — he  pointed  to  the  gar- 
den — "out  of  the  way  ?" 

"  I  must  think  of  Aunt  Pattie,  remember,"  said 
Eleanor  quickly. 

"Ah  !  dear  Aunt  Pattie  ! — but  bring  her  too.— 
I  see  perfectly  well  that  Alice  has  already  marked 
Miss  Foster.  She  has  asked  me  many  questions 
about  her.  She  feels  her  innocence  and  fresh- 
ness like  a  magnet,  drawing  out  her  own  sorrows 
and  grievances.  My  poor  Alice — what  a  wreck  ! 
Could  I  have  done  more  ? — could  I  ?" 

He  walked  on  absently,  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  his  face  working  painfully. 

Eleanor  was  touched.  She  did  her  best  to  help 
him  throw  off  his  misgivings;  she  defended  him 
from  himself ;  she  promised  him  her  help,  not 
with  the  old  effusion,  but  still  with  a  cousinly 
kindness.  And  his  mercurial  nature  soon  passed 
into  another  mood — a  mood  of  hopefulness  that 
the  doctor  would  set  everything  right,  that  Alice 
would  consent  to  place  herself  under  proper  care, 
that  the  crisis  would  end  well — and  in  twenty - 
four  hours. 

"  Meanwhile  for  this  afternoon  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Oh !  we  must  be  guided  by  circumstances. 
We  understand  each  other. — Eleanor! — what  a 
prop,  what  a  help  you  are !" 

She  shrank  into  herself.  It  was  true  indeed 
that  she  had  passed  through  a  good  many  dis- 
agreeable hours  since  Alice  Manisty  arrived,  on 
her  own  account ;  for  she  had  been  left  in  charge 
several  times;  and  she  had  a  secret  terror  of 
246 


madness.  Manisty  had  not  given  her  much 
thanks  till  now.  His  facile  gratitude  seemed  to 
her  a  little  tardy.     She  smiled  and  put  it  aside. 

Manisty  wrestled  with  his  sister  again  that 
morning,  while  the  other  three  ladies,  all  of  them 
silent  and  perturbed,  worked  and  read  in  the 
garden.  Lucy  debated  with  herself  whether  she 
should  describe  what  she  had  seen  the  night  be- 
fore. But  her  instinct  was  always  to  make  no 
unnecessary  fuss.  What  harm  was  there  in  sit- 
ting out-of-doors,  on  an  Italian  night  in  May? 
She  would  not  add  to  the  others'  anxieties.  More- 
over she  felt  a  curious  slackness  and  shrinking 
from  exertion — even  the  exertion  of  talking.  As 
Eleanor  had  divined,  she  had  caught  a  slight 
chill  at  Nemi,  and  the  effects  of  it  were  malari- 
ous, in  the  Italian  way.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
little  shiveriness  and  languor,  and  of  a  wish  to 
lie  or  sit  quite  still.  But  Aunt  Pattie  was  ad- 
ministering quinine,  and  keeping  a  motherly  eye 
upon  her.  There  was  nothing,  according  to  her, 
to  be  alarmed  about. 

At  the  end  of  a  couple  of  hours,  Manisty  came 
out  from  his  study  much  discomposed.  Alice 
Manisty  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  and  Manisty 
summoned  Eleanor  to  walk  up  and  down  a  dis- 
tant path  with  him. 

When  luncheon  came  Alice  Manisty  did  not 
appear.  Dalgetty  brought  a  message  excusing 
her,  to  which  Manisty  listened  in  silence. 

Aunt  Pattie  slipped  out  to  see  that  the  visitor 
247 


had  everything  she  required.  But  she  returned 
almost  instantly,  her  little  parchment  face  quiv- 
ering with  nervousness. 

"  Alice  would  not  see  me,"  she  said  to  Manisty. 

"  We  must  leave  her  alone,"  he  said  quickly. 
"Dalgetty  will  look  after  her." 

The  meal  passed  under  a  cloud  of  anxiety. 
For  once  Manisty  exerted  himself  to  make  talk, 
but  not  with  much  success. 

As  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room,  he  detained 
Lucy. 

"Would  it  be  too  hot  for  you  in  the  garden 
now?    Would  you  mind  returning  there?" 

Lucy  fetched  her  hat.  There  was  only  one 
short  stretch  of  sun-beaten  path  to  cross,  and 
then,  beyond,  one  entered  upon  the  deep  shade 
of  the  ilexes,  already  penetrated,  at  the  turn  of 
the  day,  by  the  first  breaths  of  the  sea-wind  from 
the  west.  Manisty  carried  her  books,  and  ar- 
ranged a  chair  for  her.  Then  he  looked  round 
to  see  if  any  one  was  near.  Yes.  Two  gardeners 
were  cutting  the  grass  in  the  central  zone  of  the 
garden — well  within  call. 

**  My  aunt,  or  Mrs.  Burgoyne  will  follow  you 
very  shortly,"  he  said.  **  You  do  not  mind  being 
alone  ?" 

"  Please,  don't  think  of  me  !"  cried  Lucy.  **  I 
am  afraid  I  am  in  your  way." 

"  It  will  be  all  right  to-morrow,"  he  said,  fol- 
lowing his  own  thoughts.  "  May  I  ask  that  you 
will  stay  here  for  the  present  ?" 

Lucy  promised,  and  he  went. 
248 


She  was  left  to  think  first,  to  think  many 
times,  of  the  constant  courtesy  and  kindness 
which  had  now  wholly  driven  from  her  mind  the 
memory  of  his  first  manner  to  her ;  then  to 
ponder,  with  a  growing  fascination  which  her 
own  state  of  -slight  fever  and  the  sultry  heat  of 
the  day  seemed  to  make  it  impossible  for  her  to 
throw  off,  on  Alice  Manisty,  on  the  incident  of 
the  night  before,  and  on  the  meaning  of  the  poor 
lady's  state  and  behavior.  She  had  taken  Mrs. 
Burgoyne's  word  of '*  mad  "  in  a  general  sense, 
as  meaning  eccentricity  and  temper.  But  surely 
they  were  gravely  anxious — and  everything  was 
most  strange  and  mysterious.  The  memory  of 
the  white  staring  face  under  the  moonlight  ap- 
palled her.  She  tried  not  to  think  of  it ;  but  it 
haunted  her. 

Her  nerves  were  not  in  their  normal  state ; 
and  as  she  sat  there,  in  the  cool  dark,  vague, 
paralyzing  fears  swept  across  her,  of  which  she 
was  ashamed.  One  minute  she  longed  to  go 
back  to  them,  and  help  them.  The  next,  she  rec- 
ognized that  the  best  help  she  could  give  was  to 
stay  where  she  was.  She  saw  very  well  that  she 
was  a  responsibility  and  a  care  to  them. 

"  If  it  lasts,  I  must  go  away  " — she  said  to  her- 
self firmly.     "  Certainly  I  must  go." 

But  at  the  thought  of  going,  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes.  At  most,  there  was  little  more 
than  a  fortnight  before  the  party  broke  up,  and 
she  went  with  Aunt  Pattie  to  Vallombrosa. 

She  took  up  the  book  upon  her  knee.  It  was 
249 


a  fine  poem  in  koman  dialect,  on  the  immorta" 
retreat  of  Garibaldi  after  '49.  But  after  a  few 
lines,  she  let  it  drop  again,  listlessly.  One  of  the 
motives  which  had  entered  into  her  reading  of 
these  things — a  constant  heat  of  antagonism  and 
of  protest — seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  her. 

Meanwhile  Aunt  Pattie,  Eleanor  and  Manisty 
held  conclave  in  Aunt  Pattie's  sitting-room, 
which  was  a  little  room  at  the  southwestern  cor- 
ner of  the  apartment.  It  opened  out  of  the 
salon,  and  overlooked  the  Campagna. 

On  the  northeastern  side,  Dalgetty,  Alice  Man- 
isty's  maid,  sat  sewing  in  passage-room,  which 
commanded  the  entrance  to  the  glass  passage — 
her  own  door — the  door  of  the  anteroom  that 
Manisty  had  spoken  of  to  Eleanor,  and  close  be- 
side her  a  third  door — which  was  half  open — 
communicating  with  Manisty's  library.  The 
glass  passage,  or  conservatory,  led  directly  to 
the  staircase  and  the  garden,  past  the  French 
windows  of  the  library. 

Dalgetty  was  a  person  of  middle  age.  a  strongly 
made  Scotchwoman  with  a  high  forehead  and 
fashionable  rolls  of  sandy  hair.  Her  face  was 
thin  and  freckled,  and  one  might  have  questioned 
whether  its  expression  was  shrewd,  or  self-im- 
portant. She  was  clearly  thinking  of  other  mat- 
ters than  needle-work.  Her  eyes  travelled  con- 
stantly to  one  or  other  of  the  doors  in  sight;  and 
her  lips  had  the  pinched  tension  that  shows  pre- 
occupation. 

250 


tter  mind  indeed  harbored  a  good  many  dis- 
agreeable thoughts.  In  the  first  place  she  was 
pondering  the  qualities  of  a  certain  drug  lately 
recommended  as  a  sedative  to  her  mistress  It 
seemed  to  Dalgetty  that  its  effect  had  not  been 
good,  but  evil ;  or  rather  that  it  acted  capri- 
ciously, exciting  as  often  as  it  soothed.  Yet  Miss 
Alice  would  take  it.  On  coming  to  her  room 
after  her  interview  with  her  brother,  she  had 
fallen  first  into  a  long  fit  of  weeping,  and  then, 
after  much  restless  pacing  to  and  fro  she  had 
put  her  hands  to  her  head  in  a  kind  of  despair, 
and  had  bade  Dalgetty  give  her  the  new  medi- 
cine. *' I  must  lie  down  and  sleep — sleep  !** — she 
had  said, "or " 

And  then  she  had  paused  looking  at  Dalgetty 
with  an  aspect  so  piteous  and  wild  that  the  maid's 
heart  had  quaked  within  her.  Nevertheless  she 
had  tried  to  keep  the  new  medicine  away  from 
her  mistress.  But  Miss  Alice  had  shown  such 
uncontrollable  anger  on  being  crossed,  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  yield.  And  as  all 
was  quiet  in  her  room,  Dalgetty  hoped  that  this 
time  the  medicine  would  prove  to  be  a  friend, 
and  not  a  foe,  and  that  the  poor  lady  would  wake 
up  calmer  and  less  distraught 

She  was  certainly  worse — much  worse.  The 
maid  guessed  at  Mr.  Manisty's  opinion ;  she 
divined  the  approach  of  some  important  step. 
Very  likely  she  would  soon  be  separated  from 
her  mistress  ;  and  the  thought  depressed  her. 
Not  only  because  she  had  an  affection  for  her 
25i 


poor  charge  ;  but  also  because  she  was  a  rather 
lazy  and  self-indulgent  woman.  Miss  Alice  had 
been  very  trying  certainly ;  but  she  was  not  ex- 
acting in  the  way  of  late  hours  and  needle-work ; 
she  had  plenty  of  money,  and  she  liked  moving 
about.  All  these  qualities  suited  the  tastes  of 
the  maid,  who  knew  that  she  would  not  easily 
obtain  another  post  so  much  to  her  mind. 

The  electric  bell  on  the  outer  landing  rang. 
Alfredo  admitted  the  caller,  and  Dalgetty  pres- 
ently perceived  a  tall  priest  standing  in  the  li- 
brary. He  was  an  old  man  with  beautiful  blue 
eyes,  and  he  seemed  to  Dalgetty  to  have  a  ner- 
vous timid  air. 

Alfredo  had  gone  to  ask  Mr.  Manisty  whether 
he  could  receive  this  gentleman — and  meanwhile 
the  stranger  stood  there  twisting  his  long  bony 
hands,  and  glancing  about  him  with  the  shyness 
of  a  bird. 

Presently  Alfredo  came  back,  and  conducted 
the  priest  to  the  salon. 

He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  Mr. 
Manisty  appeared.  He  came  through  the  library, 
and  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  passage -room 
where  she  sat. 

"  All  right,  Dalgetty  ?"  he  said,  stooping  to  her, 
and  speaking  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  think  and  hope  she's  asleep,  sir,"  said  the 
maid,  in  his  ear — "  I  have  heard  nothing  this  half- 
hour." 

Manisty  looked  relieved,  repeated  his  injunc- 
tions to  be  watchful,  and  weut  back  to  the  salon. 
«52 


Dalgetty  presently  heard  his  voice  in  the  distance, 
mingling  with  those  of  the  priest  and  Mrs.  Bur 
goyne. 

Now  she  had  nothing  left  to  amuse  her  but  the 
view  through  the  glass  passage  to  the  balcony 
and  the  lake.  It  was  hot,  and  she  was  tired  of 
her  sewing.  The  balcony  however  was  in  deep 
shade,  and  a  breath  of  cool  air  came  up  from  the 
lake.  Dalgetty  could  not  resist  it.  She  glanced 
at  her  mistress's  door  and  listened  a  moment. 
All  silence. 

She  put  down  her  work  and  slipped  through 
the  glass  passage  on  to  the  broad  stone  balcony. 

There  her  ears  were  suddenly  greeted  with  a 
sound  of  riotous  shouting  and  singing  on  the 
road,  and  Alfredo  ran  out  from  the  dining-room 
to  join  her. 

^^  Festa/'' — he  said,  nodding  to  her  in  a  kindly 
patronage,  and  speaking  as  he  might  have  spoken 
to  a  QhiXd—''  Festa  r 

And  Dalgetty  began  to  see  a  number  of  carts 
adorned  with  green  boughs  and  filled  with  sing- 
ing people,  coming  along  the  road.  Each  cart 
had  a  band  of  girls  dressed  alike  —  red,  white, 
orange,  blue,  and  so  forth. 

Alfredo  endeavored  to  explain  that  these  were 
Romans  who  after  visiting  the  church  of  the 
"  Madonna  del  Divino  Amore  "  in  the  plain  were 
now  bound  to  an  evening  of  merriment  at  Al- 
bano.  According  to  him  it  was  not  so  much  a 
case  of  "divino  amore"  as  of  "amore  di  vino," 
and  he  was  very  anxious  that  the  English  mai4 
253 


should  understand  his  pun.  She  laughed — pre- 
tended—  showed  off  her  few  words  of  Italian. 
She  thought  Alfredo  a  funny,  handsome  little 
man,  a  sort  of  toy  wound  up,  of  which  she  could 
not  understand  the  works.  But  after  all  he  was 
a  man  ;  and  the  time  slipped  by. 

After  ten  minutes,  she  remembered  her  duties 
with  a  start,  and  hastily  crossing  the  glass  pas- 
sage, she  returned  to  her  post.  All  was  just  as 
she  had  left  it.  She  listened  at  Miss  Alice's  door. 
Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  ;  and  she  resumed 
her  sewing. 

Meanwhile  Manisty  and  Eleanor  were  busy 
with  Father  Benecke.  The  poor  priest  had  come 
full  of  a  painful  emotion,  which  broke  its  bounds 
as  soon  as  he  had  Manisty's  hand  in  his. 

"  You  got  my  letter  ?"  he  said.  "  That  told  you 
my  hopes  were  dead — that  the  sands  for  me  were 
running  out?  —  Ah!  my  kind  friend  —  there  is 
worse  to  tell  you  !" 

He  stood  clinging  unconsciously  to  Manisty's 
hand,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Englishman's  face. 

"  I  had  submitted.  The  pressure  upon  me 
broke  me  down.  I  had  given  way.  They  brought 
me  a  message  from  the  Holy  Father  which  wrung 
my  heart.  Next  week  they  were  to  publish  the 
official  withdrawal  —  "  librum  reprobavit^  et  se 
laudabiliter  subjeciV  —  you  know  the  formula? 
But  meanwhile  they  asked  more  of  me.  His 
Eminence  entreated  of  me  a  private  letter  that 
he  might  send  it  to  the  Holy  Father.  So  I  made 
254 


a  condition.  I  would  write, — but  they  must  prom- 
ise, on  their  part,  that  nothing  should  be  published 
beyond  the  formal  submission,  —  that  my  letter 
should  be  for  his  eyes  alone,  and  for  the  Pope. 
They  promised,  —  oh!  not  in  writing — I  have 
nothing  written  ! — so  I  wrote.  I  placed  myself, 
like  a  son,  in  the  hands  of  the  Holy  Father. — 
Now,  this  morning  there  is  my  letter — the  whole 
of  it — in  the  "  Osservatore  Romano  "  !  To-mor- 
row ! — I  came  to  tell  you — I  withdraw  it.  I  with- 
draw my  submission  !" 

He  drew  himself  up,  his  blue  eyes  shining.  Yet 
they  were  swollen  with  fatigue  and  sleeplessness, 
and  over  the  whole  man  a  blighting  breath  of  age 
and  pain  had  passed  since  the  day  in  St.  Peter's. 

Manisty  looked  at  him  in  silence  a  moment. 
Then  he  said — 

"  I'm  sorry — heartily,  heartily  sorry  !" 

At  this  Eleanor,  thinking  that  the  two  men 
would  prefer  to  be  alone,  turned  to  leave  the 
room.    The  priest  perceived  it. 

"  Don't  leave  us,  madame,  on  my  account.  I 
have  no  secrets,  and  I  know  that  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  some  at  least  of  my  poor  history. 
But  perhaps  I  am  intruding ;  I  am  in  your 
way?" 

He  looked  round  him  in  bewilderment.  It  was 
evident  to  Eleanor  that  he  had  come  to  Manisty 
in  a  condition  almost  as  unconscious  of  outward 
surroundings  as  that  of  the  sleep-walker.  And 
she  and  Manisty,  on  their  side,  as  they  stood  look- 
ing at  him,  lost  the  impression  of  the  bodily  man 
-.    255- 


in  the  overwhelming  impression  of  a  wounded 
spirit,  struggling  with  mortal  hurt. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  she  said  to  him  gently, 
and  she  led  him_  to  a  chair.  Then  she  went  into 
the  next  room,  poured  out  and  brought  him  a 
cup  of  coffee.  He  took  it  with  an  unsteady  hand 
and  put  it  down  beside  him  untouched.-  Then  he 
looked  at  Manisty  and  began  in  detail  the  story 
of  all  that  had  happened  to  him  since  the  letter 
in  which  he  had  communicated  to  his  English 
friend  the  certainty  of  his  condemnation. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  touching  than 
his  absorption  in  his  own  case  ;  his  entire  uncon- 
sciousness  of  anything  in  Manisty's  mind  that 
could  conflict  with  it.  Eleanor  turning  from  his 
tragic  simplicity  to  Manisty's  ill-concealed  worry 
and  impatience,  pitied  both.  That  poor  Father 
Benecke  should  have  brought  his  grief  to  Man- 
isty, on  this  afternoon  of  all  afternoons  ! 

It  had  been  impossible  to  refuse  to  see  him. 
He  had  come  a  pilgrimage  from  Rome  and  could 
not  be  turned  away.  But  she  knew  well  that 
Manisty's  ear  was  listening  all  the  time  for  every 
sound  in  the  direction  of  his  sister's  room  ;  his 
anxieties  indeed  betrayed  themselves  in  every 
restless  movement  as  he  sat  with  averted  head 
— listening. 

Presently  he  got  up,  and  with  a  hurried  "  Ex- 
cuse me  an  instant " — he  left  the  room. 

Father  Benecke  ceased  to  speak,  his  lips  trem- 
bling. To  find  himself  alone  with  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
embarrassed  him.  He  sat,  folding  his  soutane 
256 


upon  his  knee,  answering  in  monosyllables  to  the 
questions  that  she  put  him.  But  her  sympathy 
perhaps  did  more  to  help  him  unpack  his  heart 
than  he  knew ;  for  when  Manisty  returned,  he 
began  to  talk  rapidly  and  well,  a  natural  elo- 
quence returning  to  him.  He  was  a  South  Ger- 
man, but  he  spoke  a  fine  literary  English,  of 
which  the  very  stumbles  and  occasional  naivetes 
had  a  peculiar  charm  ;  like  the  faults  which  re- 
veal a  pure  spirit  even  more  plainly  than  its  vir- 
tues. 

He  reached  his  climax,  in  a  flash  of  emotion — 

"  My  submission,  you  see — the  bare  fact  of  it — 
left  my  cause  intact.  It  was  the  soldier  falling 
by  the  wall.  But  my  letter  must  necessarily  be 
misunderstood  —  my  letter  betrays  the  cause. 
And  for  that  I  have  no  right.  You  understand? 
I  thought  of  the  Pope — the  old  man.  They  told 
me  he  was  distressed — that  the  Holy  Father  ha(J 
suffered  —  had  lost  sleep  —  through  me!  So  I 
wrote  out  of  my  heart — like  a  son.  And  the  pa- 
per this  morning  ! — See — I  have  brought  it  you 
— the  *Osservatore  Romano.'  It  is  insolent — 
brutal — but  not  to  me  !  No,  it  is  all  honey  to 
me  !  But  to  the  truth — to  our  ideas. — No ! — I 
cannot  suffer  it.  I  take  it  back*! — I  bear  the 
consequences." 

And  with  trembling  fingers,  he  took  a  draft 
letter  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it,  with  the 
newspaper,  to  Manisty. 

Manisty  read  the  letter,  and  returned  it  frown- 
ing. 

257 


"  Yes — you  have  been  abominably  treated — no 
doubt  of  that.  But  have  you  counted  the  cost  ? 
You  know  my  point  of  view  !  It's  one  episode, 
for  me,  in  a  world-wide  struggle.  Intellectually 
I  am  all  with  you — strategically,  all  with  them. 
They  can't  give  way!  The  smallest  breach  lets 
in  the  flood.     And  then,  chaos  !" 

"  But  the  flood  is  truth!"  said  the  old  man,  gaz- 
ing at  Manisty.  There  was  a  spot  of  red  on  each 
wasted  cheek. 

Manisty  shrugged  his  shoulders,  then  dropped 
his  eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  sat  pondering  a 
while  in  a  moody  silence.  Eleanor  looked  at  him 
in  some  astonishment.  It  was  as  though  for  the 
first  time  his  habitual  paradox  hurt  him  in  the 
wielding — or  rather  as  though  he  shrank  from 
using  what  was  a  conception  of  the  intellect  upon 
the  flesh  and  blood  before  him.  She  had  never 
yet  seen  him  visited  by  a  like  compunction. 

It  was  curious  indeed,  to  see  that  Father  Be- 
necke  himself  was  not  affected  by  Manisty's  atti- 
tude. From  the  beginning  he  had  always  in- 
stinctively appealed  from  the  pamphleteer  to  the 
man.  Manisty  had  been  frank,  brutal  even.  But 
notwithstanding,  the  sensitive  yet  strong  intelli- 
gence of  the  priest  had  gone  straight  for  some 
core  of  thought  in  the  Englishman  that  it  seemed 
only  he  divined.  And  it  was  clear  that  his  own 
utter  selflessness — his  poetic  and  passionate  de- 
tachment from  all  the  objects  of  sense  and  am- 
bition— made  him  a  marvel  to  Manisty's  more 
turbid  and  ambiguous  nature.  There  had  been 
258 


a  mystical  attraction  between  them  from  the 
first;  so  that  Manisty,  even  when  he  was  most 
pugnacious,  had  yet  a  filial  air  and  way  towards 
the  old  man. 

Eleanor  too  had  often  felt  the  spell.  Yet  to- 
day there  were  both  in  herself  and  Manisty  hid- 
den forces  of  fever  and  unrest  which  made  the 
pure  idealism,  the  intellectual  tragedy  of  the 
priest  almost  unbearable.  Neither — for  different 
and  hidden  reasons — could  respond  ;  and  it  was 
an  infinite  relief  to  both  when  the  old  man  at 
last  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

They  accompanied  him  through  the  library  to 
the  glass  passage. 

"  Keep  me  informed,"  said  Manisty,  wringing 
him  by  the  hand  ;  "and  tell  me  if  there  is  any- 
thing I  can  do." 

Eleanor  said  some  parting  words  of  sympathy. 
The  priest  bowed  to  her  with  a  grave  courtesy 
in  reply. 

*'  It  will  be  as  God  wills,"  he  said  gently;  and 
then  went  his  way  in  a  sad  abstraction. 

Eleanor  was  left  a  moment  alone.  She  put 
her  hands  over  her  heart,  and  pressed  them 
there.  "  He  suffers  from  such  high  things  !" — 
she  said  to  herself  in  a  sudden  passion  of  misery 
— "andir 

Manisty  came  hurrying  back  from  the  stair- 
case, and  crossed  the  library  to  the  passage-room 
beyond.    When  he  saw  Dalgetty  there,  still  peace- 
fully sewing,  his  look  of  anxiety  cleared  again. 
259 


••  All  right  ?"  he  said  to  her. 

*'  She  hasn't  moved,  sir.  Miss  Manisty's  just 
been  to  ask,  but  I  told  her  it's  the  best  sleep  Miss 
Alice  has  had  this  many  a  day.  After  all,  that 
stuff  do  seem  to  have  done  her  good." 

"Well,  Eleanor  —  shall  we  go  and  look  after 
Miss  Foster  ?" — he  said,  returning  to  her. 

They  entered  the  garden  with  cheered  coun- 
tenances. The  secret  terror  of  immediate  and 
violent  outbreak  which  had  possessed  Manisty 
since  the  morning  subsided  ;  and  he  drew  in  the 
ponente  with  delight. 

Suddenly,  however,  as  they  turned  into  the 
avenue  adorned  by  the  battered  bust  of  Domi- 
tian,  Manisty's  hand  went  up  to  his  eyes.  He 
stopped  ;  he  gave  a  cry. 

"  Good  God  !"— he  said—''  She  is  there  !" 

And  half-way  down  the  shadowy  space,  Eleanor 
saw  two  figures,  one  white,  the  other  dark,  close 
together. 

She  caught  Manisty  by  the  arm. 

"  Don't  hurry! — don't  excite  her!" 

As  they  came  nearer,  they  saw  that  Lucy  was 
still  in  the  same  low  chair  where  Manisty  had 
left  her.  Her  head  was  thrown  back  against  the 
cushions,  and  her  face  shone  deathly  white  from 
the  rich  sun-warmed  darkness  shed  by  the  over- 
arching trees.  And  kneeling  beside  her,  holding 
both  her  helpless  wrists,  bending  over  her  in  a 
kind  of  passionate,  triumphant  possession,  was 
Alice  Manisty. 

At  the  sound  of  the  steps  on  the  gravel  she 
260 


looked  round;  and  at  the  sight  of  her  brother, 
she  slowly  let  fall  the  hands  she  held — she  slowly 
rose  to  her  feet.  Her  tall  emaciated  form  held 
itself  defiantly  erect;  her  eyes  flashed  hatred, 

"Alice!" — said  Manisty,  approaching  her — "I 
have  something  important  to  say  to  you.  I  have 
reconsidered  our  conversation  of  this  morning, 
and  I  came  to  tell  you  so.  Come  back  with  me 
to  the  library — and  let  us  go  into  matters  again." 

He  spoke  with  gentleness,  controlling  her  with 
a  kind  look.  She  shivered  and  hesitated ;  her 
eyes  wavered.  Then  she  began  to  say  a  number 
of  rapid,  incoherent  things,  in  an  under -voice. 
Manisty  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm. 

"Come,"  he  said,  and  turned  to  the  house. 

She  pulled  herself  angrily  away. 

"  You  are  deceiving  me,"  she  said.  "  I  won't  go 
with  you." 

But  Manisty  captured  her  again. 

"  Yes — we  must  have  our  talk,"  he  said,  with 
firm  cheerfulness ;  "  there  will  be  no  time  to- 
night." 

She  broke  into  some  passionate  reproach,  speak- 
ing in  a  thick  low  voice  almost  inaudible. 

He  answered  it,  and  she  replied.  It  was  a  quick 
dialogue,  soothing  on  his  side,  wild  on  hers. 
Lucy,  who  had  dragged  herself  from  her  attitude 
of  mortal  languor,  sat  with  both  hands  grasping 
her  chair,  staring  at  the  brother  and  sister. 
Eleanor  had  eyes  for  none  but  Manisty.  Never 
had  she  seen  him  so  adequate,  so  finely  master 
of  himself. 

261 


He  conquered.  Alice  dropped  her  head  sullen- 
ly, and  let  herself  be  led  away.  Then  Eleanor 
turned  to  Lucy,  and  the  girl,  with  a  great  sob, 
leaned  against  her  dress,  and  burst  into  uncon- 
trollable tears. 

"  Has  she  been  long  here  ?"  said  Eleanor,  caress- 
ing the  black  hair. 

"  Very  nearly  an  hour,  I  think.  It  seemed  in- 
terminable. She  has  been  telling  me  of  her  ene- 
mies— her  unhappiness — how  all  her  letters  are 
opened  —  how  everybody  hates  her  —  especially 
Mr.  Manisty.  She  was  followed  at  Venice  by 
people  who  wished  to  kill  her.  One  night,  she 
says,  she  got  into  her  gondola,  in  a  dark  canal, 
and  found  there  a  man  with  a  dagger  who  attack- 
ed her.  She  only  just  escaped.  There  were  many 
other  things, — so  —  so — horrible!"  —  said  Lucy, 
covering  her  eyes.  But  the  next  moment  she 
raised  them.  "  Surely,"  she  said  imploringly, 
"surely  she  is  insane?" 

Eleanor  looked  down  upon  her,  mutely  nod- 
ding. 

"  There  is  a  doctor  coming  to-morrow,"  she 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Lucy  shuddered. 

"  But  we  have  to  get  through  the  night,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"  Oh  !  at  night  " — said  Lucy — "  if  one  found 
her  there — beside  one — one  would  die  of  it  !  I 
tried  to  shake  her  off  just  now,  several  times  ; 
but  it  was  impossible," 

She  tried  to  control  herself,  to  complain  no 
262 


riiore,  but  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  tt 
was  evident  that  she  was  under  some  overmas- 
tering impression,  some  overthrow  of  her  own 
will-power  which  had  unnerved  and  disorganized 
her.     Eleanor  comforted  her  as  best  she  could. 

"  Dalgetty  and  Edward  will  take  care  of  her 
to-night," — she  said.  "  And  to-morrow,  she  will 
be  sent  to  some  special  care.  How  she  escaped 
from  her  room  this  afternoon  I  cannot  imagine. 
We  were  all  three  on  the  watch." 

Lucy  said  nothing.  She  clung  to  Eleanor's 
hand,  while  long  shuddering  breaths,  gradually 
subsiding,  passed  through  her  ;  like  the  slow  de- 
parture of  some  invading  force. 


CHAPTER    XI 

A  FTER  Manisty   had   carried  off  his   sister 

/\  Eleanor  and  Lucy  sat  together  in  the  gar^ 
^  *-  den,  talking  sometimes,  but  more  often 
silent,  till  the  sun  began  to  drop  towards  Ostia 
and  the  Mediterranean. 

"  You  must  come  in,"  said  Eleanor,  laying  her 
hand  on  the  girl's.     "  The  chill  is  beginning." 

Lucy  arose,  conscious  again  of  the  slight  giddi. 
ness  of  fever,  and  they  walked  towards  the  house. 
Half-way,  Lucy  said  with  sudden,  shy  energy — 

"  I  do  wzsk  I  were  quite  myself !  It  is  I  who 
ought  to  be  helping  you  through  this — and  I  am 
just  nothing  but  a  worry!" 

Eleanor  smiled. 

"  You  distract  our  thoughts,"  she  said.  "  Noth- 
ing could  have  made  this  visit  of  Alice's  other 
than  a  trial." 

She  spoke  kindly,  but  with  that  subtle  lack  of 
response  to  Lucy's  sympathy  which  had  seemed 
to  spring  first  into  existence  on  the  day  of  Nemi. 
Lucy  had  never  felt  at  ease  with  her  since  then, 
and  her  heart,  in  truth,  was  a  little  sore.  She 
only  knew  that  something  intangible  and  divid- 
264 


ip.g  had  arisen  between  them ,  and  that  she  felt 
herself  once  more  the  awkward,  ignorant  girl  be- 
side this  delicate  and  high-bred  woman,  on  whose 
confidence  and  friendship  she  had  of  course  no 
claim  whatever.  Already  she  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  touch  of  shame  when  she  thought  of  her 
new  dresses  and  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  share  in  them. 
Had  she  been  after  all  the  mere  troublesome  in- 
truder ?  Her  swimming  head  and  languid  spirits 
left  her  the  prey  of  these  misgivings. 

Aunt  Pattie  met  them  at  the  head  of  the  long 
flight  of  stone  stairs  which  led  from  the  garden 
to  the  first  floor.     Her  finger  was  on  her  lip. 

"Will  you  come  through  my  room?"  she  said 
under  her  breath.  "  Edward  and  Alice  are  in  the 
library." 

So  they  made  a  round — every  room  almost  in 
the  apartment  communicating  with  every  other — 
and  thus  reached  Aunt  Pattie's  sitting-room  and 
the  salon.  Lucy  sat  shivering  beside  the  wood- 
fire  in  Aunt  Pattie's  room,  which  Miss  Manisty 
had  lit  as  soon  as  she  set  eyes  upon  her  ;  while 
the  two  other  ladies  murmured  to  each  other  in 
the  salon. 

The  rich  wild  light  from  the  Campagna  flooded 
the  room  ;  the  day  sank  rapidly  and  a  strange 
hush  crept  through  the  apartment.  The  women 
working  among  the  olives  below  had  gone  home  ; 
there  were  no  sounds  from  the  Marinata  road  ; 
and  the  crackling  of  the  fire  alone  broke  upon 
the  stillness — except  for  a  sound  which  emerged 
steadily  as  the  silence  grew.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
K  265 


man's  voice  reading.  Once  it  was  interrupted 
by  a  laugh  out  of  all  scale — an  ugly,  miserable 
laugh — and  Lucy  shuddered  afresh. 

Meanwhile  Aunt  Pattie  was  whispering  to 
Eleanor. 

"  He  was  wonderful — quite  wonderful  !  I  did 
not  think  he  could " 

"  He  can  do  anything  he  pleases.  He  seems  to 
be  reading  aloud  ?" 

"  He  is  reading  some  poems,  my  dear,  that  she 
wrote  at  Venice.  She  gave  them  to  him  to  look 
at  the  day  she  came.  I  dare  say  they're  quite 
mad,  but  he's  reading  and  discussing  them  as 
though  they  were  the  most  important  things, 
and  it  pleases  her, — poor,  poor  Alice !  First,  you 
know,  he  quieted  her  very  much  about  the  money. 
I  listened  at  the  door  sometimes,  before  you  came 
in.     She  seems  quite  reconciled  to  him." 

"  All  the  same,  I  wish  this  night  were  over  and 
the  doctor  here !"  said  Eleanor,  and  Miss  Man- 
isty,  lifting  her  hands,  assented  with  all  the 
energy  her  small  person  could  throw  into  the 
gesture. 

Lucy,  in  the  course  of  dressing  for  dinner,  de- 
cided that  to  sit  through  a  meal  was  beyond  her 
powers,  and  that  she  would  be  least  in  the  way 
if  she  went  to  bed.  So  she  sent  a  message  to 
Miss  Manisty,  and  was  soon  lying  at  ease,  with 
the  window  opposite  her  bed  opened  wide  to 
Monte  Cavo  and  the  moonlit  lake.  The  window 
on  her  left  hand,  which  looked  on  the  balcony, 
266 


she  herself  had  closed  and  fastened  with  all  pos- 
sible care.  And  she  had  satisfied  herself  that 
her  key  was  in  the  door.  As  soon  as  Miss  Man- 
isty  and  Eleanor  had  paid  her  their  good-night 
visit,  she  meant  to  secure  herself. 

And  presently  Aunt  Pattie  came  in,  to  see  that 
she  had  her  soup  and  had  taken  her  quinine. 
The  little  old  lady  did  not  talk  to  Lucy  of  her 
niece,  nor  of  the  adventure  of  the  afternoon, 
though  she  had  heard  all  from  Eleanor.  Her 
family  pride,  as  secret  as  it  was  intense,  could 
hardly  endure  this  revelation  of  the  family  trouble 
and  difficulty  to  a  comparative  stranger,  much 
as  she  liked  the  stranger.  Nevertheless  her  com- 
punctions on  the  subject  showed  visibly.  No 
cares  and  attentions  could  be  too  much  for  the 
girl  in  her  charge,  who  had  suffered  annoyance  at 
the  hands  of  a  Manisty,  while  her  own  natural 
protectors  were  far  away. 

"  Benson,  my  dear,  will  come  and  look  after 
you  last  thing,"  said  the  old  lady,  not  with- 
out a  certain  stateliness.  *'  You  will  lock  your 
door  —  and  I  hope  you  will  have  a  very  good 
night." 

Half  an  hour  later  came  Mrs.  Burgoyne.  Lucy's 
candle  was  out.  A  wick  floating  on  oil  gave  a 
faint  light  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  Across 
the  open  window  a  muslin  curtain  had  been 
drawn,  to  keep  out  bats  and  moths.  But  the 
moonlight  streamed  through,  and  lay  in  patches 
on  the  brick  floor.  And  in  this  uncertain  il- 
lumination Lucy  could  just  see  the  dark  pits  of 
267 


Eleanor's  eyes,  the  sharp  slightness  of  her  form, 
the  dim  wreath  of  hair. 

"  You  may  be  quite  happy,"  said  Eleanor  bend- 
ing over  her,  and  speaking  almost  in  a  whisper. 
"  She  is  much  quieter.  They  have  given  her  a 
stronger  sleeping-draught  and  locked  all  the  doors 
— except  the  door  into  Dalgetty's  room.  And 
that  is  safe,  for  Dalgetty  has  drawn  her  bed  right 
across  it.  If  Alice  tries  to  come  through,  she 
must  wake  her,  and  Dalgetty  is  quite  strong 
enough  to  control  her.  Besides,  Manisty  would 
be  there  in  a  moment.  So  you  may  be  quite, 
quite  at  ease." 

Lucy  thanked  her. 

"And  you?"  she  said  wistfully,  feeling  for 
Eleanor's  hand. 

Eleanor  yielded  it  for  an  instant,  then  with- 
drew it,  and  herself. — "  Oh,  thank  you — I  shall 
sleep  excellently.  Alice  takes  no  interest,  alas ! 
in  me  !  You  are  sure  there  is  nothing  else  we 
can  do  for  you  ?"  She  spoke  in  a  light,  guarded 
voice,  that  seemed  to  Lucy  to  come  from  a  per- 
son miles  away. 

"  Thank  you — I  have  everything." 

"  Benson  will  bring  you  milk  and  lemonade. 
I  shall  send  Marie  first  thing  for  news  of  you. 
You  know  she  sleeps  just  beyond  you,  and  you 
have  only  to  cross  the  dining-room  to  find  me. 
Good-night.     Sleep  well." 

As  Eleanor  closed  the  door  behind  her,  Lucy 
was  conscious  of  a  peculiar  sinking  of  heart 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  once  made  all  the  advances 
268 


in  their  friendship.  Lucy  thought  of  two  or 
three  Icisses  that  formerly  had  greeted  her  cheek, 
to  which  she  had  been  too  shy  and  startled  to 
respond.  Now  it  seemed  to  her  difficult  to  im- 
agine that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  ever  caressed  her, 
had  ever  shown  herself  so  sweet  and  gay  and 
friendly  as  in  those  first  weeks  when  all  Lucy's 
pleasure  at  the  villa  depended  upon  her.  What 
was  wrong  ? — what  had  she  done  ? 

She  lay  drooping,  her  hot  face  pressed  upon 
her  hands,  pondering  the  last  few  weeks,  thoughts 
and  images  passing  through  her  brain  with  a 
rapidity  and  an  occasional  incoherence  that  was 
the  result  of  her  feverish  state.  How  much  she 
had  seen  and  learned  in  these  flying  days! — it 
often  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  old  self  had 
been  put  off  along  with  her  old  clothes.  She 
was  carried  back  to  the  early  time  when  she  had 
just  patiently  adapted  herself  to  Mr.  Manisty's 
indifference  and  neglect,  as  she  might  have  adapt- 
ed herself  to  any  other  condition  of  life  at  the 
villa.  She  had  made  no  efforts.  It  had  seemed 
to  her  mere  good  manners  to  assume  that  he  did 
not  want  the  trouble  of  her  acquaintance,  and  be 
done  with  it.  To  her  natural  American  feeling 
indeed,  as  the  girl  of  the  party,  it  was  strange 
and  disconcerting  that  her  host  should  not  make 
much  of  her.  But  she  had  soon  reconciled  her- 
self. After  all,  what  was  he  to  her  or  she  to 
him? 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  a  whole  swarm  of  incidents 
and  impressions  rushed  upon  memory.  The 
269 


semi-darkness  of  her  room  was  broken  by  im- 
ages, brilliant  or  tormenting  —  Mr.  Manisty's 
mocking  look  in  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's  —  his 
unkindness  to  his  cousin — his  sweetness  to  his 
friend — the  aspect,  now  petulant,  even  childish, 
and  now  gracious  and  commanding  beyond  any 
other  she  had  ever  known,  which  he  had  worn  at 
Nemi.  His  face,  upturned  beside  her,  as  she  and 
her  horse  climbed  the  steep  path  ;  the  extraor- 
dinary significance,  fulness,  warmth  of  the  nat- 
ure behind  it ;  the  gradual  unveiling  of  the  man's 
personality,  most  human,  faulty,  self-willed,  yet 
perpetually  interesting  and  challenging,  whether 
to  the  love  or  hate  of  the  by-stander  : — these  feel- 
ings or  judgments  about  her  host  pulsed  through 
the  girl's  mind  with  an  energy  that  she  was  pow- 
erless to  arrest.  They  did  not  make  her  happy, 
but  they  seemed  to  quicken  and  intensify  all  the 
acts  of  thinking  and  living. 

At  last,  however,  she  succeeded  in  recapturing 
herself,  in  beating  back  the  thoughts  which,  like 
troops  over-rash  on  a  doubtful  field,  appeared  to 
be  carrying  her  into  the  ambushes  and  strong- 
holds of  an  enemy.  She  was  impatient  and 
scornful  of  them.  For,  crossing  all  these  mem- 
ories of  things,  new  or  exciting,  there  was  a  con- 
stant sense  of  something  untoward,  something 
infinitely  tragic,  accompanying  them,  developing 
beside  them.  In  this  feverish  silence  it  became 
a  nightmare  presence  filling  the  room. 

What  was  the  truth  about  Mr.  Manisty  and  his 
cousin  ?  Lucy  searched  her  own  innocent  mind 
270 


and  all  its  new  awakening  perceptions  in  vain 
The  intimacy  of  the  friendship,  as  she  had  first 
seen  it ;  the  tone  used  by  Mr.  Manisty  that  after- 
noon in  speaking  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ;  the  hundred 
small  signs  of  a  deep  distress  in  her,  of  a  new  de- 
tachment in  him — Lucy  wandered  in  darkness  as 
she  thought  of  them,  and  yet  with  vague  pangs 
and  jarring  vibrations  of  the  heart. 

Her  troubled  dream  was  suddenly  broken  by  a 
sound.  She  sprang  up  trembling.  Was  it  an  an- 
gry, distant  voice  ?  Did  it  come  from  the  room 
across  the  balcony  ?  No  ! — it  was  the  loud  talk- 
ing of  a  group  of  men  on  the  road  outside.  She 
shook  all  over,  unable  to  restrain  herself.  "  What 
would  Uncle  Ben  think  of  me  ?"  she  said  to  her- 
self in  despair.  For  Uncle  Ben  loved  calm  and 
self-control  in  women,  and  had  often  praised  her 
that  she  was  not  flighty  and  foolish,  as  he  in  his 
bachelor  solitude  conceived  most  other  young 
women  to  be. 

She  looked  down  at  her  bandaged  wrist.  The 
wound  still  ached  and  burned  from  the  pressure 
of  that  wild  grip  which  she  had  not  been  able  to 
ward  off  from  it.  Lucy  herself  had  the  strength 
of  healthy  youth,  but  she  had  felt  her  strength 
as  nothing  in  Alice  Manisty's  hands.  And  the 
tyranny  of  those  black  eyes  ! — so  like  her  broth- 
er's, without  the  human  placable  spark — and  the 
horror  of  those  fierce  possessing  miseries  that 
lived  in  them  ! 

Perhaps  after  all  Uncle  Ben  would  not  have 
thought    her    so   cowardly  !     As  she  sat    up   in 
271 


bed,  her  hands  round  her  knees,  a  pitiful  home- 
sickness invaded  her.  A  May  scent  of  roses 
coming  from  the  wall  below  the  open  window 
recalled  to  her  the  spring  scents  at  home — not 
these  strong  Italian  scents,  but  thin  northern 
perfumes  of  lilac  and  lavender,  of  pine  -  needles 
and  fresh  grass.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
on  the  slope  behind  Uncle  Ben's  house,  with 
the  scattered  farms  below — and  the  maple  green 
in  the  hollow — and  the  grassy  hill-sides  folded 
one  upon  another  —  and  the  gleam  of  a  lake 
among  them — and  on  the  farthest  verge  of  the 
kind  familiar  scene,  the  blue  and  shrouded  heads 
of  mountain  peaks.  She  dropped  her  head  on 
her  knees,  and  could  hear  the  lowing  of  cattle 
and  the  clucking  of  hens  ;  she  saw  the  meeting- 
house roof  among  the  trees,  and  groups  scat- 
tered through  the  lanes  on  the  way  to  the 
prayer-meeting,  the  older  women  in  their  stuff 
dresses  and  straw  bonnets,  the  lean,  bronzed 
men. 

Benson's  knock  dispelled  the  mirage.  The  maid 
brought  lemonade  and  milk,  brushed  Lucy's  long 
hair  and  made  all  straight  and  comfortable. 

When  her  tendance  was  over  she  looked  at  the 
door  and  then  at  Lucy.  "  Miss  Manisty  said, 
miss,  I  was  to  see  you  had  your  key  handy.  It's 
there  all  right — but  it  is  the  door  that's  wrong. 
Never  saw  such  flimsy  things  as  the  doors  in  all 
this  place." 

And  Benson  examined  the  two  flaps  of  the 
door,  filled  with  that  frank  contempt  for  the  for- 
272 


eigner's  powers  and  intelligence  which  makes  the 
English  race  so  beloved  of  Europe. 

"  Why,  the  floor-bolts  '11  scarcely  hold,  neither 
of  them  ;  and  the  lock's  that  loose,  it's  a  disgrace. 
But  I  shouldn't  think  the  people  that  own  this 
tJlace  had  spent  a  shilling  on  it  since  I  was  born. 
When  you  go  to  lay  hold  on  things  they're  just 
tumbling  to  bits." 

"  Oh  !  never  mind,  Benson,"  said  Lucy — shrink- 
ing. "I'm  sure  it'll  be  all  right.  Thank  you — 
and  good-night." 

She  and  Benson  avoided  looking  at  each  other ; 
ahd  the  maid  was  far  too  highly  trained  to  be- 
tray any  knowledge  she  was  not  asked  for.  But 
when  she  had  taken  her  departure  Lucy  slipped 
out  of  bed,  turned  the  key,  and  tightened  the 
bolts  herself.  It  was  true  that  their  sockets  in 
the  brick  floor  were  almost  worn  away  ;  and  the 
lock-case  seemed  scarcely  to  hold  upon  the  rotten 
wood.  The  wood-work,  indeed,  throughout  the 
whole  villa  was  not  only  old  and  worm-eaten,  but 
it  had  been  originally  of  the  rudest  description, 
meant  for  summer  uses,  and  a  villeggiatura  exist- 
ence in  which  privacy  was  of  small  account.  The 
Malestrini  who  had  reared  the  villa  above  the 
Campagna  in  the  late  seventeenth  century  had 
no  money  to  waste  on  the  superfluities  of  doors 
that  fitted  and  windows  that  shut  ;  he  had  spent 
all  he  had,  and  more,  on  the  sprawling /«/// and 
fruit  wreaths  of  the  ceilings,  and  the  arabesques 
of  the  walls.  And  now  doors,  windows,  and  shut- 
ters alike,  shrunken  and  scorched  and  blistered  by 
273 


the  heat  of  two  hundred  summers,  were  dropping 
into  ruin. 

The  handling  of  this  rotten  lock  and  its  rickety 
accompaniments  suddenly  brought  back  a  panic 
fear  on  Lucy.  What  if  Alice  Manisty  and  the 
wind,  which  was  already  rising,  should  burst  in 
upon  her  together  ?  She  looked  down  upon  her 
night-gown  and  her  bare  feet.  Well,  at  least  she 
would  not  be  taken  quite  unawares !  She  opened 
her  cupboard  and  brought  from  it  a  white  wrap- 
per of  a  thin  woollen  stuff  which  she  put  on.  She 
thrust  her  feet  into  her  slippers,  and  so  stood  a 
moment  listening,  her  long  hair  dropping  about 
her.  Nothing  !  She  lay  down,  and  drew  a  shawl 
over  her.  "I  won't — won't — sleep,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

And  the  last  sound  she  was  conscious  of  was 
the  cry  of  the  little  downy  owl — so  near  that  it 
seemed  to  be  almost  at  her  window. 

"  You  are  unhappy,"  said  a  voice  beside  her. 

Lucy  started.  The  self  in  her  seemed  to  wres- 
tle its  way  upward  from  black  and  troubled  depths 
of  sleep.  She  opened  her  eyes.  Some  one  was 
bending  over  her.  She  felt  an  ineffable  horror, 
but  not  the  smallest  astonishment.  Her  dreams 
had  prophesied;  and  she  saw  what  she  foreknew. 

In  the  wavering  light  she  perceived  a  stooping 
form,  and  again  she  noticed  a  whiteness  of  hands 
and  face  set  in  a  black  frame. 

"  Yes  !"  she  said,  lifting  herself  on  her  el^ow. 
**  Yes  ! — what  do  you  want  ?" 
274 


"  You  have  been  sobbing  in  your  sleep,"  said 
the  voice.  "  I  know  why  you  are  unhappy.  My 
brother  is  beginning  to  love  you — you  might  love 
him.  But  there  is  some  one  between  you — and 
there  always  will  be.  There  is  no  hope  for  you — 
unless  I  show  you  the  way  out." 

"Miss  Manisty  !  —  you  oughtn't  to  be  here," 
said  Lucy,  raising  herself  higher  in  bed  and  try- 
ing to  speak  with  absolute  self-command.  "  Won't 
you  go  back  to  bed — won't  you  let  me  take  you  ?" 

And  she  made  a  movement.  Instantly  a  hand 
was  put  out.  It  seized  her  arm  first  gently,  then 
irresistibly. 

"  Don't,  don't  do  that,"  said  the  voice.  "  It 
makes  me  angry — and — that  hurts." 

Alice  Manisty  raised  her  other  hand  to  her  head, 
with  a  strange  piteous  gesture.  Lucy  was  struck 
with  the  movement  of  the  hand.  It  was  shut  over 
something  that  it  concealed. 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  you  angry,"  she  said, 
trying  to  speak  gently  and  keep  down  the  phys- 
ical tumult  of  the  heart  ;  "  but  it  is  not  good  for 
you  to  be  up  like  this.  You  are  not  strong — you 
ought  to  have  rest." 

The  grip  upon  her  arm  relaxed, 

"  I  don't  rest  now" — a  miserable  sigh  came  out 
of  the  darkness.  "  I  sleep  sometimes — but  I  don't 
rest.  And  it  used  all  to  be  so  happy  once — 
whether  I  was  awake  or  asleep.  I  was  extraor- 
dinarily happy,  all  the  winter,  at  Venice.  One 
day  Octave  and  I  had  a  quarrel.  He  said  I  was 
mad — he  seemed  to  be  sorry  for  me— he  held  my 
275 


arms  and  I  saw  him  crying.  But  it  was  quite 
a  mistake — I  wasn't  unhappy  then.  My  brother 
John  was  always  with  me,  and  he  told  me  the 
most  wonderful  things — secrets  that  no  one  else 
knows.  Octave  could  never  see  him — and  it  was 
so  strange — I  saw  him  so  plain.  And  my  mother 
and  father  were  there  too — there  was  nothing  be- 
tween me  and  any  dead  person.  I  could  see  them 
and  speak  to  them  whenever  I  wished.  People 
speak  of  separation  from  those  who  die.  But 
there  is  none— they  are  always  there.  And  when 
you  talk  to  them,  you  know  that  you  are  immor- 
tal as  they  are — only  you  are  not  like  them.  You 
remember  this  world  still^-you  know  you  have 
to  go  back  to  it.  One  night  John  took  me— we 
seemed  to  go  through  the  clouds — through  little 
waves  of  white  fire — and  I  saw  a  city  of  light,  full 
of  spirits — the  most  beautiful  people,  men  and 
women  —  with  their  souls  showing  like  flames 
through  their  frail  bodies.  They  were  quite 
kind — they  smiled  and  talked  to  me.  But  I  cried 
bitterly— because  I  knew  I  couldn't  stay  with 
them — in  their  dear  strange  world — I  must  come 
back — back  to  all  I  hated — all  that  strangled  and 
hindered  me." 

I'he  voice  paused  a  moment.  Through  Lucy's 
mind  certain  incredible  words  which  it  hid  spoken 
echoed  and  re-echoed.  Consciousness  did  not 
master  them  ;  but  they  made  a  murmur  within 
it  through  which  other  sounds  hardly  penetrated. 
Yet  she  struggled  with  herself — she  remembered 
that  only  clearness  of  brain  could  save  her. 
276 


She  raised  herself  higher  on  her  pillows  that 
she  might  bring  herself  more  on  a^  level  with  her 
unbidden  guest. 

"And  these  ideas  gave  you  pleasure?"  she  said, 
almost  with  calm. 

"  The  intensest  happiness,"  said  the  low,  drag- 
ging tones.  "Others  pity  me. — 'Poor  creature — 
she's  mad' — I  heard  them  say.  And  it  made  me 
smile.  For  I  had  powers  they  knew  nothing  of ; 
I  could  pass  from  one  world  to  another ;  one  place 
to  another.  I  could  see  in  a  living  person  the 
soul  of  another  dead  long  ago.  And  everything 
spoke  to  me — the  movement  of  leaves  on  a  tree — 
the  eyes  of  an  animal — all  kinds  of  numbers  and 
arrangements  that  come  across  one  in  the  day. 
Other  people  noticed  nothing.  To  me  it  was  all 
alive — everything  was  alive.  Sometimes  I  was 
so  happy,  so  ecstatic,  I  could  hardly  breathe. 
The  people  who  pitied  me  seemed  to  me  dull  and 
crawling  beings.  If  they  had  only  known  !  But 
now " 

A  long  breath  came  from  the  darkness  —  a 
breath  of  pain.  And  again  the  figure  raised  its 
hand  to  its  head. 

"Now  —  somehow,  it  is  all  different.  When 
John  comes,  he  is  cold  and  unkind — he  won't 
open  to  me  the  old  sights.  He  shows  me  things 
instead  that  shake  me  with  misery — that  kill  me. 
My  brain  is  darkening — its  powers  are  dying  out. 
That  means  that  I  must  let  this  life  go — I  must 
pass  into  another.  Some  other  soul  must  give 
me  room.  Do  you  understand?" 
277 


Closer  came  the  form.  Lucy  perceived  the 
white  face  and  the  dimly  burning  eyes,  she  felt 
herself  suffocating,  but  she  dared  make  no  sud- 
den move  for  fear  of  that  closed  hand  and  what 
it  held. 

"No  —  I  don't  understand,'*  she  said  faintly; 
"  but  I  am  sure — no  good  can  come  to  you — from 
another's  harm." 

"  What  harm  would  it  be  ?  You  are  beginning 
to  love — and  your  love  will  never  make  you  happy. 
My  brother  is  like  me.  He  is  not  mad — but  he 
has  a  being  apart.  If  you  cling  to  him,  he  puts 
you  from  him — if  you  love  him  he  tires.  He  has 
never  loved  but  for  his  own  pleasure — to  complete 
his  life.  How  could  you  complete  his  life  ?  What 
have  you  that  he  wants?  His  mind  now  is  full  of 
you — his  senses,  his  feeling  are  touched — but  in 
three  weeks  he  would  weary  of  and  despise  you. 
Besides — you  know — you  know  well — that  is  not 
all.  There  is  another  woman— whose  life  you 
must  trample  on — and  you  are  not  made  of  stuff 
strong  enough  for  that.  No,  there  is  no  hope  for 
you,  in  this  existence — this  body.  But  there  is 
no  death ;  death  is  only  a  change  from  one  form 
of  being  to  another.  Give  up  your  life,  then — as 
I  will  give  up  mine.  We  will  escape  together. 
I  can  guide  you — I  know  the  way.  We  shall  find 
endless  joy  —  endless  power!  I  shall  be  with 
Octave  then,  as  and  when  I  please  —  and  you 
with  Edward.     Come  !" 

The  face  bent  nearer,  and  the  iron  hold  closed 
again  stealthily  on  the  girl's  wrist.  Lucy  lay 
278 


with  her  own  face  turned  away  and  her  eyes  shut. 
She  scarcely  breathed.  A  word  of  prayer  passed 
through  her  mind — an  image  of  her  white-haired 
uncle,  her  second  father  left  alone  and  desolate. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  quick  movement  beside 
her.  Her  heart  fluttered  wildly.  Then  she  opened 
her  eyes.  Alice  Manisty  had  sprung  up,  had  gone 
to  the  window,  and  flung  back  the  muslin  cur- 
tains. Lucy  could  see  her  now  quite  plainly  in 
the  moonlight — the  haggard  energy  of  look  and 
movement,  the  wild  dishevelled  hair. 

"I  knew  the  end  was  come — this  afternoon," 
said  the  hurrying  voice.  "  When  I  came  out  to 
you,  as  1  walked  along  the  terrace — the  sun  went 
out !  I  saw  it  turn  black  above  the  Campagna — 
all  in  a  moment — and  I  said  to  myself,  'What  will 
the  world  do  without  the  sun? — how  will  it  live?' 
And  now — do  you  see  ?" — she  raised  her  arm,  and 
Lucy  saw  it  for  an  instant  as  a  black  bar  against 
the  window,  caught  the  terrible  dignity  of  gesture, 
— "  there  is  not  one  moon — but  many  !  Look  at 
them  !  How  they  hurry  through  the  clouds — 
one  after  the  other !  Do  you  understand  what 
that  means  ?  Perhaps  not — for  your  sight  is  not 
like  mine.  But  I  know.  It  means  that  the  earth 
has  left  its  orbit — that  we  are  wandering — wan- 
dering in  space — like  a  dismasted  vessel !  We 
are  tossed  this  way  and  that,  sometimes  nearer 
to  the  stars — and  sometimes  farther  away.  That 
is  why  they  are  first  smaller  —  and  then  larger. 
But  the  crash  must  come  at  last — death  for  the 

world — death  for  us  all " 

279 


Her  hands  fell  to  her  side,  the  left  hand  always 
tightly  closed  —  her  head  drooped;  her  voice, 
-  which  had  been  till  now  hoarse  and  parched  as 
though  it  came  from  a  throat  burned  with  tever, 
took  a  deep  dirgelike  note.  Noiselessly  Lucy 
raised  herself  —  she  measured  the  distance  be- 
tween herself  and  the  door  —  between  the  mad 
woman  and  the  door.  Oh  God  ! — was  the  aoor 
locked?  Her  eyes  strained  through  the  dark- 
ness. How  deep  her  sleep  must  have  been  that 
she  had  heard  no  sound  of  its  yielding!  Her 
hand  was  ready  to  throw  off  the  shawl  that 
covered  her,  when  she  was  startled  by  a  laugh 
— a  laugh  vile  and  cruel  that  seemed  to  come 
from  a  new  presence  —  another  being.  Alice 
Manisty  rapidly  came  back  to  her,  stood  between 
her  bed  and  the  wall,  and  Lucy  felt  instinctively 
that  some  hideous  change  had  passed. 

"  Dalgetty  thought  that  all  was  safe,  so  did 
Edward.  And  indeed  the  locks  were  safe — the 
only  doors  that  hold  in  all  the  villa  —  I  tried 
yours  in  the  afternoon  while  Manisty  and  the 
priest  were  talking!  But  mine  held.  So  I  had 
to  deal  with  Dalgetty."  She  stooped,  and  whis- 
pered : — '*  I  got  it  in  Venice  one  day — the  chem- 
ist near  the  Rialto.  She  might  have  found  it — 
but  she  never  did — she  is  very  stupid.  I  did  her 
no  harm  —  I  think.  But  if  it  kills  her,  death 
is  nothing!  —  nothing! — only  the  gate  of  life. 
Come  ! — come  !  prove  it !" 

A  hand  darted  and  fell,  like  a  snake  striking. 
Lucy  just  threw  herself  aside  in  time — she  sprang 
280 


up  —  she  rushed  —  she  tore  at  the  door  —  pulling 
at  it  with  a  frantic  strength.  It  yielded  with  a 
crash,  for  the  lock  was  already  broken.  Should 
she  turn  left  or  right? — to  the  room  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne's  maid,  or  to  Mr.  Manisty's  library  ?  She 
chose  the  right  and  fled  on.  She  had  perhaps  ten 
seconds  start,  since  the  bed  had  been  between  her 
enemy  and  the  door.  But  if  any  other  door  in* 
terposed  between  her  and  succor,  all  was  over ! 
— for  she  heard  a  horrible  cry  behind  her,  and 
knew  that  she  was  pursued.  On  she  dashed, 
across  the  landing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Ah  ! 
the  dining-room  door  was  open  !  She  passed  it, 
and  then  turned,  holding  it  desperately  against 
her  pursuer. 

"  Mr  Manisty  !  help  I" 

The  agonized  voice  rang  through  the  silent 
rooms.  Suddenly  —  a  sound  from  the  library — 
a  chair  overturned — a  cry — a  door  flung  open. 
Manisty  stood  in  the  light. 

He  bounded  to  her  side.  His  strength  released 
hers.  The  upper  part  of  the  door  was  glass,  and 
that  dark  gasping  form  on  the  other  side  of  it 
was  visible  to  them  both,  in  a  pale  dawn  light 
from  the  glass  passage. 

"  Go  !" — he  said — "  Go  through  my  room — find 
Eleanor !" 

She  fled.  But  as  she  entered  the  room,  she  tot- 
tered— she  fell  upon  the  chair  that  Manisty  had 
just  quitted, — and  with  a  long  shudder  that  re- 
laxed all  her  young  limbs,  her  senses  left  her. 

Meanwhile  the  whole  apartment  was  alarmed 
281 


The  first  to  arrive  upon  the  scene  was  the  strong 
housemaid,  who  found  Ah'ce  Manisty  stretched 
upon  the  floor  of  the  glass  passage,  and  her 
brother  kneeling  beside  her,  his  clothes  and 
hands  torn  in  the  struggle  with  her  delirious 
violence.  Alfredo  appeared  immediately  after- 
wards ;  and  then  Manisty  was  conscious  of  the 
flash  of  a  hand-lamp,  and  the  soft,  hurrying  step 
of  Eleanor  Burgoyne. 

She  stood  in  horror  at  the  entrance  of  the  glass 
passage.  Manisty  gave  his  sister  into  Alfredo's 
keeping  as  he  rose  and  went  towards  her. 

"For  God's  sake" — he  said  under  his  breath— 
*'  go  and  see  what  has  happened  to  Dalgetty.*' 

He  took  for  granted  that  Lucy  had  taken  ref- 
uge with  her,  and  Eleanor  stayed  to  ask  no 
questions,  but  fled  on  to  Dalgetty's  room.  As 
she  opened  the  door  the  fumes  of  chloroform  as- 
sailed her,  and  there  on  the  bed  lay  the  unfort- 
unate maid,  just  beginning  to  moan  herself  back 
to  consciousness  from  beneath  the  chloroformed 
handkerchief  that  had  reduced  her  to  impotence 

Her  state  demanded  every  care.  While  Man- 
isty and  the  housemaid  Andreina  conveyed  Alice 
Manisty,  now  in  a  state  of  helpless  exhaustion, 
to  her  room,  and  secured  her  there,  Alfredo  ran 
for  the  Marinata  doctor.  Eleanor  and  Aunt 
Pattie  forced  brandy  through  the  maid's  teeth, 
and  did  what  they  could  to  bring  back  warmth 
and  circulation. 

They  were  still  busy  with  their  task  when  the 
elderly  Italian  arrived,  who  was  the  communal 
282 


doctor  and  chemist  of  the  village.  The  smell  of 
the  room,  tlie  sight  of  the  woman,  was  enough. 
The  man  was  efficient  and  discreet,  and  he  threw 
himself  into  his  work  without  more  questions 
than  were  absolutely  necessary  In  the  midst  of 
their  efforts  Manisty  reappeared,  panting. 

**  Ought  he  not  to  see  Miss  Foster  too  ?"  he  said 
anxiously  to  Eleanor  Burgoyne. 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

A  smothered  exclamation  broke  from  him.  He 
rushed  away,  back  to  the  library  which  he  had 
seen  Lucy  enter. 

The  cool  clear  light  was  mounting.  It  pene- 
trated the  wooden  shutters  of  the  library  and 
mingled  with  the  dying  light  of  the  lamp  which 
had  served  him  to  read  with  through  the  night, 
beside  which,  in  spite  of  his  utmost  efforts,  he 
had  fallen  asleep  at  the  approach  of  dawn.  There, 
in  the  dreamlike  illumination,  he  saw  Lucy  lying 
within  his  deep  arm-chair.  Her  face  was  turned 
away  from  him  and  hidden  against  the  cushion  ; 
her  black  hair  streamed  over  the  white  folds  of 
her  wrapper ;  one  arm  was  beneath  her,  the  other 
hung  helplessly  over  her  knee. 

He  went  up  to  her  and  called  her  name  in  an 
agony. 

She  moved  slightly,  made  an  effort  to  rouse 
herself  and  raised  her  hand.  But  the  hand  fell 
again,  and  the  word  half  formed  upon  her  lips 
died  away.  Nothing  could  be  more  piteous, 
more  disarmed.  Yet  even  her  disarray  and  help- 
lessness were  lovely ;  she  was  noble  in  her  de- 
283 


feat ;  her  very  abandonment  breathed  youth  and 
purity  ;  the  man's  wildly  surging  thoughts  sank 
abashed. 

But  words  escaped  him — words  giving  irrevo- 
cable shape  to  feeling.  For  he  saw  that  she  could 
not  hear. 

"  Lucy  ! — Lucy — dear,  beautiful  Lucy  !" 

He  hung  over  her  in  an  ardent  silence,  his 
eyes  breathing  a  respect  that  was  the  very  soul 
of  passion,  his  hand  not  daring  to  touch  even  a 
fold  of  her  dress.  Meanwhile  the  door  leading 
to  the  little  passage -room  opened  noiselessly. 
Eleanor  Burgoyne  entered.  Manisty  was  not 
aware  of  it.  He  bent  above  Lucy  in  a  tender 
absorption  speaking  to  her  as  he  might  have 
spoken  to  a  child,  calling  to  her,  comforting  and 
rousing  her.  His  deep  voice  had  an  enchanter's 
sweetness  ;  and  gradually  it  wooed  her  back  to 
life.  She  did  not  know  what  he  was  saying  to 
her,  but  she  responded.  Her  lids  fluttered  ;  she 
moved  in  her  chair,  a  deep  sigh  lifted  her  breast. 

At  that  moment  the  door  in  Eleanor's  hand 
escaped  her  and  swung  to.  Manisty  started  back 
and  looked  round  him. 

"  Eleanor  ! — is  that  you  ?" 

In  the  barred  and  ghostly  light  Eleanor  came 
slowly  forward.  She  looked  first  at  Lucy — then 
at  Manisty.     Their  eyes  met. 

Manisty  was  the  first  to  move  uneasily, 

''Look  at  her,  Eleanor  ! — poor  child! — Alice 
must  have  attacked  her  in  her  room.  She  es- 
caped by  a  marvel.  When  I  wrestled  with  Alice, 
284 


1  found  this  in  her  hand.  One  second  more,  and 
she  would  have  used  it  on  Miss  Foster." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  surgical  knife, 
and  looked,  shuddering,  at  its  sharpness  and  its 
curved  point. 

Eleanor  too  shuddered.  She  laid  her  hand  on 
Lucy's  shoulder,  while  Manisty  withdrew  into 
the  shadows  of  the  room. 

Lucy  raised  herself  by  a  great  effort.  Her 
first  half-conscious  impulse  was  to  throw  herself 
into  the  arms  of  the  woman  standing  by  her. 
Then  as  she  perceived  Eleanor  clearly,  as  her 
reason  came  back,  and  her  gaze  steadied,  the  im- 
pulse died. 

"Will  you  help  me?"  she  said,  simply — holding 
out  her  hand  and  tottering  to  her  feet. 

A  sudden  gleam  of  natural  feeling  lit  up  the 
frozen  whiteness  of  Eleanor's  face.  She  threw 
her  arm  round  Lucy's  waist,  guiding  her.  And 
so,  closely  entwined,  the  two  passed  from  Man- 
isty's  sight. 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  sun  had  already  deserted  the  eastern 
side  of  the  villa  when,  on  the  morning 
following  these  events,  Lucy  woke  from  a 
fitful  sleep  to  find  Benson  standing  beside  her. 
Benson  had  slept  in  her  room  since  the  dawn  ; 
and,  thanks  to  exhaustion  and  the  natural  pow- 
ers of  youth,  Lucy  came  back  to  consciousness, 
weak  but  refreshed,  almost  free  from  fever  and 
in  full  possession  of  herself.  Nevertheless,  as 
she  raised  herself  in  bed  to  drink  the  tea  that 
Benson  offered  her  —  as  she  caught  a  glimpse 
through  the  open  window  of  the  convent-crowned 
summit  and  wooded  breast  of  Monte  Cavo,  flooded 
with  a  broad  white  sunlight — she  had  that  strange 
sense  of  change,  of  a  yesterday  irrevocably  parted 
from  to-day,  that  marks  the  entry  into  another 
room  of  life.  The  young  soul  at  such  times  trem- 
bles before  a  power  unknown,  yet  tyrannously  felt. 
All  in  a  moment  without  our  knowledge  or  co- 
operation something  has  happened.  Life  will 
never  be  again  as  it  was  last  week.  "  How  ? — or 
why?"  the  soul  cries.  "  I  knew  nothing — willed 
286 


nothing."     And  then  dimly,  through  the  dark  of 
its  own  tumult,  the  veiled  Destiny  appears. 

Benson  was  not  at  all  anxious  that  Lucy  should 
throw  off  the  invalid. 

"  And  indeed,  miss,  if  I  may  say  so,  you'll  be 
least  in  the  way  where  you  are.  They're  expect- 
ing the  doctor  from  Rome  directly." 

The  maid  looked  at  her  curiously.  All  that 
the  household  knew  was  that  Miss  Alice  Manisty 
had  escaped  from  her  room  in  the  night,  after 
pinioning  Dalgetty's  arms  and  throwing  a  chlo- 
roformed handkerchief  over  her  face.  Miss  Fos- 
ter, it  seemed,  had  been  aroused  and  alarmed,  and 
Mr.  Manisty  coming  to  the  rescue  had  overpow- 
ered his  sister  by  the  help  of  the  stout  camerie- 
ra^  Andreina.  This  was  all  that  was  certainly 
known. 

Nor  did  Lucy  show  herself  communicative. 
As  the  maid  threw  back  all  the  shutters  and 
looped  the  curtains,  the  girl  watched  the  sum- 
mer light  conquer  the  room  with  a  shiver  of 
reminiscence. 

"  And  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

The  maid  hesitated. 

"  She's  up  long  ago,  miss.  But  she  looks  that 
ill,  it's  a  pity  to  see  her.  She  and  Mr.  Manisty 
had  their  coffee  together  an  hour  ago — and  she's 
been  helping  him  with  the  arrangements.  I  am 
sure  it'll  be  a  blessing  when  the  poor  lady's  put 
away.     It  would  soon  kill  all  the  rest  of  you." 

"  Will  she  go  to-day,  Benson  ?"  said  Lucy,  in  a 
low  voice. 

387 


The  maid  replied  that  she  believed  that  was 
Mr.  Manisty's  decision,  that  he  had  been  order- 
ing a  carriage,  and  that  it  was  supposed  two 
nurses  were  coming  with  the  doctor.  Then  she 
inquired  whether  she  might  carry  good  news  of 
Lucy  to  Miss  Manisty  and  the  master. 

Lucy  hurriedly  begged  they  might  be  told 
that  she  was  quite  well,  and  nobody  was  to  take 
the  smallest  trouble  about  her  any  more.  Ben- 
son threw  a  sceptical  look  at  the  girl's  blanched 
cheek,  shook  her  head  a  little,  and  departed. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  there  was  a  light  tap 
at  the  door  and  Eleanor  Burgoyne  entered. 

"You  have  slept? — you  are  better,"  she  said, 
standing  at  Lucy's  bedside. 

"  I  am  only  ashamed  you  should  give  me  a 
thought,"  the  girl  protested.  "  I  should  be  up 
now  but  for  Benson.  She  said  I  should  be  out  of 
the  way." 

"Yes,"  said  Eleanor  quietly.  "That  is  so." 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  resumed — "  If 
you  should  hear  anything  disagreeable  don't  be 
alarmed.  There  will  be  a  doctor  and  nurses.  But 
she  is  quite  quiet  this  morning — quite  broken — 
poor  soul !  My  cousins  are  going  into  Rome 
with  her.  The  home  where  she  will  be  placed  is 
on  Monte  Mario.  Edward  wishes  to  assure  him- 
self that  it  is  all  suitable  and  well  managed.  And 
Aunt  Pattie  will  go  with  him." 

Through  the  girl's  mind  flashed  the  thought — 
"  Then  we  shall  be  alone  together  all  day," — and 
her  heart  sank.  She  dared  not  look  into  Mrs. 
288 


Burgoyne's  tired  eyes.  The  memory  oi  words 
spoken  to  her  in  the  darkness — of  that  expres- 
sion she  had  surprised  on  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  face 
as  she  woke  from  her  swoon  in  the  library,  sud- 
denly renewed  the  nightmare  in  which  she  had 
been  living.  Once  more  she  felt  herself  walking 
among  snares  and  shadows,  with  a  trembling 
pulse. 

Yet  the  feeling  which  rose  to  sight  was  nothing 
more  than  a  stronger  form  of  that  remorseful 
tenderness  which  had  been  slowly  invading  her 
during  many  days.  She  took  Eleanor's  hand  in 
hers  and  kissed  it  shyly. 

"  Then  /  shall  look  after  you,''  she  said  trying 
to  smile.     "  I'll  have  my  way  this  time  !" 

"  Wasn't  that  a  carriage  ?"  said  Eleanor  hur- 
riedly. She  listened  a  moment.  Yes — a  carriage 
had  drawn  up.     She  hastened  away. 

Lucy,  left  alone,  could  hear  the  passage  of  feet 
through  the  glass  passage,  and  the  sound  of 
strange  voices,  representing  apparently  two  men, 
and  neither  of  them  Mr.  Manisty. 

She  took  a  book  from  her  table  and  tried  not 
to  listen.  But  she  could  not  distract  her  mind 
from  the  whole  scene  which  she  imagined  must 
be  going  on, — the  consultation  of  the  doctors,  the 
attitude  of  the  brother. 

How  had  Mr.  Manisty  dealt  with  his  sister  the 
night  before?  What  weapon  was  in  Alice  Manis- 
ty's  hand  ?  Lucy  remembered  no  more  after  that 
moment  at  the  door,  when  Manisty  had  rushed 
to  Vier  relief,  bidding  her  go  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 
289 


He  himself  had  not  been  hurt,  or  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
would  have  told  her.  Ah  ! — he  had  surely  been 
kind,  though  strong.  Her  eyes  filled.  She 
thought  of  the  new  light  in  which  he  had  ap- 
peared to  her  during  these  terrible  days  with  his 
sister  ;  the  curb  put  on  his  irritable,  exacting 
temper;  his  care  of  Alice,  his  chivalry  towards 
herself.  In  another  man  such  conduct  would 
have  been  a  matter  of  course.  In  Manisty  it 
touched  and  captured,  because  it  could  not  have 
been  reckoned  on.  She  had  done  him  injustice, 
and — unknowing — he  had  revenged  himself. 

The  first  carriage  apparently  drove  away  ;  and 
after  an  interval  another  replaced  it.  Nearly  an 
hour  passed  : — then  sudden  sounds  of  trampling 
feet  and  opening  doors  broke  the  silence  which 
had  settled  over  the  villa.  Voices  and  steps  ap- 
proached, entered  the  glass  passage.  Lucy  sprang 
up.  Benson  had  flung  the  window  looking  on  the 
balcony  and  the  passage  open,  but  had  fastened 
across  it  the  outside  sun-shutters.  Lucy,  securely 
hidden  herself,  could  see  freely  through  the  wood- 
en strips  of  the  shutter. 

Ah  !  —  sad  procession  !  Manisty  came  first 
through  the  passage,  the  sides  of  which  were 
open  to  the  balcony.  His  sister  was  on  his  arm. 
veiled  and  in  black.  She  moved  feebly,  some- 
times hesitating  and  pausing,  and  Lucy  distin- 
guished the  wild  eyes,  glancing  from  side  to  side. 
But  Manisty  bent  his  fine  head  to  her;  his  left 
hand  secured  hers  upon  his  arm;  he  spoke  to  her 
gently  and  cheerfully.  Behind  walked  Aunt  Pat- 
290 


tie,  v^ery  small  and  nervously  pale,  followed  by  a 
nurse.  Then  two  men — Lucy  recognized  one  as 
the  Marinata  doctor — and  another  nurse  ;  then 
Alfredo,  with  luggage. 

They  passed  rapidly  out  of  her  sight.  But  the 
front  door  was  immediately  below  the  balcony, 
and  her  ear  could  more  or  less  follow  the  depart- 
ure. And  there  was  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  leaning 
over  the  balcony.  Mr.  Manisty  spoke  to  her 
from  below.  Lucy  fancied  she  caught  her  own 
name,  and  drew  back  indignant  with  herself  for 
listening. 

Then  a  sound  of  wheels — the  opening  of  the 
iron  gate — the  driving  up  of  another  carriage — 
some  shouting  between  Alfredo  and  Andreina — 
and  it  was  all  over.     The  villa  was  at  peace  again. 

Lucy  drew  herself  to  her  full  height,  in  a  fierce 
rigidity  of  self-contempt.  What  was  she  still  lis- 
tening for — still  hungering  for  ?  What  seemed  to 
have  gone  suddenly  out  of  heaven  and  earth,  with 
the  cessation  of  one  voice  ? 

She  fell  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed.  It  was 
natural  to  her  to  pray,  to  throw  herself  on  a  sus- 
taining and  strengthening  power.  Such  prayer 
in  such  a  nature  is  not  the  specific  asking  of  a 
definite  boon.  It  is  rather  a  wordless  aspiration 
towards  a  Will  not  our  own — a  passionate  long- 
ing, in  the  old  phrase,  to  be  "  right  with  God," 
whatever  happens,  and  through  all  the  storms  of 
personal  impulse. 

An  hour  later  Lucy  entered  the  salon  just  as 
291 


Alfredo,  coming  up  behind  her,  announced  that 
the  mid-day  breakfast  was  ready.  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
was  sitting  near  the  western  window  with  her 
sketching  things  about  her.  Some  western  clouds 
had  come  up  from  the  sea  to  veil  the  scorching 
heat  with  which  the  day  had  opened.  Eleanor 
had  thrown  the  sun-shutters  back,  and  was  fin- 
ishing and  correcting  one  of  the  Nemi  sketches 
she  had  made  during  the  winter. 

She  rose  at  sight  of  Lucy. 

"  Such  a  relief  to  throw  one's  self  into  a  bit  of 
drawing !"  She  looked  down  at  her  work.  "  What 
hobby  do  you  fly  to  ?" 

"  I  mend  the  house-linen,  and  I  tie  down  the 
jam,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  You  have  heard 
me  play — so  you  know  I  don't  do  that  well  ! 
And  I  can't  draw  a  hay-stack." 

"You  play  very  well,"  said  Eleanor  embar- 
rassed, as  they  moved  towards  the  dining-room. 

"  Just  well  enough  to  send  Uncle  Ben  to  sleep 
when  he's  tired  !  I  learned  it  for  that.  Will  you 
play  to  me  afterwards  ?" 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Eleanor,  a  little  for- 
mally. 

How  long  the  luncheon  seemed !  Eleanor,  a 
white  shadow  in  her  black  transparent  dress, 
toyed  with  her  food,  eat  nothing,  and  complained 
of  the  waits  between  the  courses. 

Lucy  reminded  her  that  there  were  fifty  steps 
between  the  kitchen  and  their  apartment.  Elea- 
nor did  not  seem  to  hear  her  ;  she  had  apparent- 
ly forgotten  her  own  remark,  and  was  staring 
292 


absently  before  her.  When  she  spoke  next  it 
was  about  London,  and  the  June  season.  She 
had  promised  to  take  a  young  cousin,  just  "come 
out,"  to  some  balls.  Her  talk  about  her  plans 
was  careless  and  languid,  but  it  showed  the 
woman  naturally  at  home  in  the  fashionable 
world,  with  connections  in  half  the  great  fam- 
ilies, and  access  to  all  doors.  The  effect  of  it 
was  to  make  Lucy  shrink  into  herself.  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  had  spoken  formerly  of  their  meeting 
in  London.  She  said  nothing  of  it  to-day,  and 
Lucy  felt  that  she  could  never  venture  to  re- 
mind her. 

From  Eleanor's  disjointed  talk,  also,  there 
flowed  another  subtle  impression.  Lucy  realized 
what  kinship  means  to  the  English  wealthy  and 
well-born  class  —  what  a  freemasonry  it  estab- 
lishes, what  opportunities  it  confers.  The  Man- 
istys  and  Eleanor  Burgoyne  were  part  of  a  great 
clan  with  innumerable  memories  and  traditions. 
They  said  nothing  of  them  ;  they  merely  took 
them  for  granted  with  all  that  they  implied,  the 
social  position,  the  "  consideration,"  the  effect  on 
others. 

The  American  girl  is  not  easily  overawed. 
The  smallest  touch  of  English  assumption  in 
her  new  acquaintances  would  have  been  enough, 
six  weeks  before,  to  make  Lucy  Foster  open  her 
dark  eyes  in  astonishment  or  contempt.  That  is 
not  the  way  in  which  women  of  her  type  under- 
stand life. 

But  to-day  the  frank  forces  of  the  girl's  nature 
293 


felt  themselves  harassed  and  crippled.  She  sat 
with  downcast  eyes,  constrainedly  listening  and 
sometimes  replying.  No — it  was  very  true.  Mr. 
Manisty  was  not  of  her  world.  He  had  relations, 
friendships,  affairs,  infinitely  remote  from  hers 
— none  of  which  could  mean  anything  to  her. 
Whereas  his  cousin's  links  with  him  were  the 
natural  inevitable  links  of  blood  and  class.  He 
might  be  unsatisfactory  or  uncivil  ;  but  she  had 
innumerable  ways  of  recovering  him,  not  to  be 
understood  even,  by  those  outside. 

When  the  two  women  returned  to  the  salon, 
a  kind  of  moral  distance  had  established  itself 
between  them.  Lucy  was  silent ;  Eleanor  rest- 
less. 

Alfredo  brought  the  coffee.  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
looked  at  her  watch  as  he  retired. 

*'  Half-past  one,"  she  said  in  a  reflective  voice. 
"  By  now  they  have  made  all  arrangements." 

"  They  will  be  back  by  tea-time  ?" 

"  Hardly, — but  before  dinner.  Poor  Aunt  Pat- 
tie  !     She  will  be  half  dead." 

"  Was  she  disturbed  last  night  ?"  asked  Lucy  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Just  at  the  end.  Mercifully  she  heard  noth- 
ing till  Alice  was  safe  in  her  room." 

Then  Eleanor's  eyes  dwelt  broodingly  on  Lucy. 
She  had  never  yet  questioned  the  girl  as  to  her 
experiences.  Now  she  said  with  a  certain  abrupt- 
ness— 

"  I  suppose  she  forced  your  door?" 

"  I  suppose  so. — But  I  was  asleep." 
294 


"Were  you  terribly  frightened  when  you  found 
her  there?" 

As  she  spoke  Eleanor  said  to  herself  that  in  all 
probability  Lucy  knew  nothing  of  Manisty's  dis- 
covery of  the  weapon  in  Alice's  hand.  While  she 
was  helping  the  girl  to  bed,  Lucy,  in  her  dazed 
and  shivering  submission,  was  true  to  her  natural 
soberness  and  reserve.  Instead  of  exaggerating, 
she  had  minimized  what  had  happened.  Miss 
Alice  Manisty  had  come  to  her  room, — had  be- 
haved strangely, — and  Lucy,  running  to  summon 
assistance,  had  roused  Mr.  Manisty  in  the  library. 
No  doubt  she  might  have  managed  better,  both 
then  and  in  the  afternoon.  And  so,  with  a  reso- 
lute repression  of  all  excited  talk,  she  had  turned 
her  blanched  face  from  the  light,  and  set  herself 
to  go  to  sleep,  as  the  only  means  of  inducing 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  also  to  leave  her  and  rest. 

Eleanor's  present  question,  however,  set  the 
girl's  self-control  fluttering,  so  sharply  did  it  re- 
call the  horror  of  the  night.  She  curbed  herself 
visibly  before  replying. 

"  Yes, — I  was  frightened.  But  I  don't  think 
she  could  have  hurt  me.  I  should  have  been 
stronger  when  it  came  to  the  point." 

"  Thank  God  Edward  was  there  !"  cried  Eleanor. 
•'  Where  did  he  come  to  you  ?" 

"  At  the  dining-room  door.  I  could  not  have 
held  it  much  longer.  Then  he  told  me  to  go  to 
you.  And  I  tried  to.  But  I  only  just  managed 
to  get  to  that  chair  in  the  library." 

"  Mr.  Manisty  found  you  quite  unconscious." 
295 


A  sudden  red  dyed  Lucy's  cheek. 

"Mr.  Manisty! — was  he  there?  I  hoped  he 
knew  nothing  about  it.     I  only  saw  you." 

Eleanor's  thought  drew  certain  inferences.  But 
they  gave  her  little  comfort.  She  turned  away 
abruptly,  complaining  of  the  heat,  and  went  to 
the  piano. 

Lucy  sat  listening,  with  a  book  on  her  knee. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  grown  strangely 
unreal  in  this  hot  silence  of  the  villa — the  high 
room  with  its  painted  walls  —  the  marvellous 
prospect  outside,  just  visible  in  sections  through 
the  half -closed  shutters  —  herself  and  her  com- 
panion. Mrs.  Burgoyne  played  snatches  of  Brahms 
and  Chopin  ;  but  her  fingers  stumbled  more  than 
usual.     Her  attention  seemed  to  wander. 

Inevitably  the  girl's  memory  went  back  to  the 
wild  things  which  Alice  Manisty  had  said  to  her. 
In  vain  she  rebuked  herself.  The  fancies  of  a 
mad-woman  were  best  forgotten, — so  common- 
sense  told  her.  But  over  the  unrest  of  her  own 
heart,  over  the  electrical  tension  and  dumb 
hostility  that  had  somehow  arisen  between  her 
and  Eleanor  Burgoyne,  common-sense  had  small 
power.  She  could  only  say  to  herself  with  grow- 
ing steadiness  of  purpose  that  it  would  be  best 
for  her  not  to  go  to  Vallombrosa,  but  to  make 
arrangements  as  soon  as  possible  to  join  the 
Porters'  friends  at  Florence,  and  go  on  with  them 
to  Switzerland. 

To  distract  herself,  she  presently  drew  towards 
her  the  open  portfolio  of  Eleanor's  sketches, 
2q6 


which  was  lying  on  the  table.  Most  of  them  she 
had  seen  before,  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  often 
bade  her  turn  them  over  as  she  pleased. 

She  looked  at  them,  now  listlessly,  now  with 
sudden  stirs  of  feeling.  Here  was  the  niched 
wall  of  the  Nemi  temple  ;  the  arched  recesses 
overgrown  with  ilex  and  fig  and  bramble  ;  in 
front  the  strawberry-pickers  stooping  to  their 
work.  Here,  an  impressionist  study  of  the  lake 
at  evening,  with  the  wooded  height  of  Genzano 
breaking  the  sunset  ;  here  a  sketch  from  mem- 
ory of  Aristodemo  teasing  the  girls.  Below  this 
drawing,  lay  another  drawing  of  figures.  Lucy 
drew  it  out,  and  looked  at  it  in  bewilderment. 

At  the  foot  of  it  was  written — "  The  Slayer 
and  the  Slain."  Her  thoughts  rushed  back  to 
her  first  evening  at  the  villa — to  the  legend  of 
the  priest.  The  sketch  indeed  contained  two 
figures  —  one  erect  and  triumphant,  the  other 
crouching  on  the  ground.  The  prostrate  figure 
was  wrapped  in  a  cloak  which  was  drawn  over 
the  head  and  face.  The  young  victor,  sword  in 
hand,  stood  above  his  conquered  enemy. 

Or — Was  it  a  man? 

Lucy  looked  closer,  her  cold  hand  shaking  on 
the  paper.  The  vague  classical  dress  told  noth- 
ing. But  the  face — whose  was  it  ? — and  the  long 
black  hair  ?  She  raised  her  eyes  towards  an  old 
mirror  on  the  wall  in  front,  then  dropped  them 
to  the  drawing  again,  in  a  sudden  horror  of  rec- 
ognition. And  the  piteous  figure  on  the  ground, 
with  the  delicate  woman's  hand  ? — Lucy  caught 
L  297 


her  breath.  It  was  as  though  the  blow  at  her 
heart,  which  Manisty  had  averted  the  night  be- 
fore, had  fallen. 

Then  she  became  aware  that  Eleanor  had 
turned  round  upon  her  seat  at  the  piano,  and 
was  watching  her. 

"  I  was  looking  at  this  strange  drawing,"  she 
said.  Her  face  had  turned  a  sudden  crimson. 
She  pushed  the  drawing  from  her  and  tried  to 
smile. 

Eleanor  rose  and  came  towards  her. 

"  I  thought  you  would  see  it,"  she  said.  "  I 
wished  you  to  see  it." 

Her  voice  was  hoarse  and  shaking.  She  stood 
opposite  to  Lucy,  supporting  herself  by  a  marble 
table  that  stood  near. 

Lucy's  color  disappeared,  she  became  as  pale 
as  Eleanor. 

"  Is  this  meant  for  me  ?" 

She  pointed  to  the  figure  of  the  victorious 
priest.     Eleanor  nodded. 

"  I  drew  it  the  night  after  our  Nemi  walk,"  she 
said  with  a  fluttering  breath.  "A  vision  came  to 
me  so — of  you — and  me." 

Lucy  started.  Then  she  put  her  arms  on  the 
table  and  dropped  her  face  into  her  arms.  Her 
voice  became  a  low  and  thrilling  murmur  that 
just  reached  Eleanor's  ears. 

"  I  wish — oh  !  how  I  wish — that  I  had  never 
come  here !" 

Eleanor  wavered  a  moment,  then  she  said  with 
gentleness,  even  with  sweetness  : 
298 


"  You  have  nothing  to  blame  yourself  for.  Nor 
has  any  one.  That  picture  accuses  no  one.  It 
draws  the  future — which  no  one  can  stop  or 
change — but  you." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Lucy,  still  hiding  her 
eyes  and  the  bitter  tears  that  dimmed  them — 
"what  does  it  mean?  Why  am  I  the  slayer?— 
and — and — you  the  slain?  What  have  I  done? 
How  have  I  deserved  such  a  thing  ?" 

Her  voice  failed  her.  Eleanor  drew  a  little 
nearer. 

"  It  is  not  you  —  but  fate.  You  have  taken 
from  me  —  or  you  are  about  to  take  from  me — 
the  last  thing  left  to  me  on  this  earth  !  I  have 
had  one  chance  of  happiness,  and  only  one,  in  all 
my  life,  till  now.  My  boy  is  dead — he  has  been 
dead  eight  years.  And  at  last  I  had  found  an- 
other chance — and  after  seven  weeks,  you — you 
— are  dashing  it  from  me  !" 

Lucy  drew  back  from  the  table,  like  one  that 
shrinks  from  an  enemy. 

"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  !"      ' 

"  You  don't  know  it !"  said  Eleanor  calmly. 
"Oh  !  I  understand  that.  You  are  too  good — too 
loyal.  That's  why  I  am  talking  like  this.  One 
could  only  dare  it  with  some  one  whose  heart 
one  knew.  Oh !  I  have  had  such  gusts  of  feel- 
ing towards  you — such  mean,  poor  feeling.  And 
then,  as  I  sat  playing  there,  I  said  to  myself, 
*  I'll  tell  her  !  She  will  find  that  drawing,  and— 
I'll  tell  her  !  She  has  a  great,  true  nature — she'll 
understand.  Why  shouldn't  one  try  to  save  one's 
299 


self?  It's  the  natural  law.  There's  only  the  one 
life.' " 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand  an  in- 
stant, choking  down  the  sob  which  interrupted 
her.     Then  she  moved  a  little  nearer  to  Lucy. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  appealing,  —  "  you  were 
very  sweet  and  tender  to  me  one  day.  It's  very 
easy  to  pretend  to  mourn  with  other  people — be- 
cause one  thinks  one  ought — or  because  it  makes 
one  liked.  I  am  always  pretending  in  that  way 
— I  can't  help  it.  But  you — no:  you  don't  say 
what  you  don't  feel,  and  you've  the  gift  to  feel. 
It's  so  rare — and  you'll  suffer  from  it.  You'll 
find  other  people  doing  what  I'm  doing  now — 
throwing  themselves  upon  you — taking  advan- 
tage— trusting  to  you.  You  pitied  me  because 
I  had  lost  my  boy.  But  you  didn't  know — you 
couldn't  guess  how  bare  my  life  has  been  always 
— but  for  him.  And  then  —  this  winter — "her 
voice  changed  and  broke — "the  sun  rose  again 
for  me.  I  have  been  hungry  and  starving  for 
years,  and  it  seemed  as  though  I — even  I! — 
might  still  feast  and  be  satisfied. 

"  It  would  not  have  taken  much  to  satisfy  me. 
I  am  not  young,  like  you  —  I  don't  ask  much. 
Just  to  be  his  friend,  his  secretary,  his  compan- 
ion— in  time — perhaps — his  wife — w*hen  he  began 
to  feel  the  need  of  home,  and  peace — and  to  real- 
ize that  no  one  else  was  so  dear  or  so  familiar  to 
him  as  I.  I  understood  him — he  me — our  minds 
touched.  There  was  no  need  for  *  falling  in  love.* 
One  had  only  to  go  on  from  day  to  day — entering 
300 


into  each  other's  lives — I  ministering  to  him  and 
l|ie  growing  accustomed  to  the  atmosphere  I  could 
surround  him  with,  and  the  sympathy  I  could  give 
him — till  the  habit  had  grown  so  deep  into  heart 
and  flesh  that  it  could  not  be  wrenched  away. 
His  hand  would  have  dropped  into  mine,  almost 
without  his  willing  or  knowing  it.  .  .  .  And  I 
should  have  made  him  happy.  I  could  have  les- 
sened his  faults — stimulated  his  powers.  That 
ivas  my  dream  all  these  later  months — and  every 
week  it  seemed  to  grow  more  reasonable,  more 
possible.     Then  you  came " 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  Lucy,  resting 
her  delicate  hands  on  the  back  of  it.  In  the  min- 
gled abandonment  and  energy  of  her  attitude, 
there  was  the  power  that  belongs  to  all  elemental 
human  emotion,  made  frankly  visible  and  active. 
All  her  plaintive  clinging  charm  had  disappeared. 
It  was  the  fierceness  of  the  dove — the  egotism  of 
the  weak.  Every  line  and  nerve  of  the  fragile 
form  betrayed  the  exasperation  of  suffering  and 
a  tension  of  the  will,  unnatural  and  irresistible. 
Lucy  bowed  to  the  storm.  She  lay  with  her  eyes 
hidden,  conscious  only  of  this  accusing  voice  close 
to  her, — and  of  the  song  of  two  nightingales  with- 
out, rivalling  each  other  among  the  chestnut-trees 
above  the  lower  road. 

Eleanor  resumed  after  a  momentary  pause — a 
momentary  closing  of  the  tired  eyes,  as  though 
in  search  of  calm  and  recollection, 

"  You  came.  He  took  no  notice  of  you.  He 
was  rude  and  careless — he  complained  that  our 
301 


work  would  be  interrupted.  It  teased  him  that 
you  should  be  here — and  that  you  represented 
something  so  different  from  his  thoughts  and 
theories.  That  is  like  him.  He  has  no  real  tol- 
erance. He  wants  to  fight,  to  overbear,  to  crush, 
directly  he  feels  opposition.  Among  women  es- 
pecially, he  is  accustomed  to  be  the  centre — to 
be  the  master  always.  And  you  resisted — silent- 
ly. That  provoked  and  attracted  him.  Then 
came  the  difficulties  with  the  book  —  and  Mr. 
Neal's  visit.  He  has  the  strangest  superstitions. 
It  was  ill-luck,  and  I  was  mixed  up  with  it.  He 
began  to  cool  to  me — to  avoid  me.  You  were 
here ;  you  didn't  remind  him  of  failure.  He 
found  relief  in  talking  to  you.  His  ill -humor 
would  all  have  passed  away  like  a  child's  sulki- 
ness,  but  that— Ah  !  well " 

She  raised  her  hand  with  a  long,  painful  sigh, 
and  let  it  drop. 

"  Don't  imagine  I  blame  any  one.  You  were 
so  fresh  and  young — it  was  all  so  natural.  Yet 
somehow  I  never  really  feared — after  the  first 
evening  I  felt  quite  at  ease.  I  found  it  natural 
to  like — to  love — you.  And  what  could  you  and 
he  have  in  common  ?  Then  on  the  Nemi  day  I 
dared  to  reproach  him  —  to  appeal  to  the  old 
times — to  show  him  the  depth  of  my  own  wound 
— to  make  him  explain  himself.  Oh  !  but  all 
these  words  are  far,  far  too  strong  for  what  I 
did  !  Who  could  ever  suppose  it  to  their  ad- 
vantage to  make  a  scene  with  him — to  weary  or 
disgust  him  ?  It  was  only  a  word — a  phrase  or 
30:? 


two  here  and  there.  But  he  understood, — and 
he  gave  me  my  answer.  Oh  !  what  humiliations 
we  women  can  suffer  from  a  sentence — a  smile — 
and  show  nothing — nothing!" 

Her  face  had  begun  to  burn.  She  lifted  her 
handkerchief  to  brush  away  two  slow  tears  that 
had  forced  their  way.  Lucy's  eyes  had  been 
drawn  to  her  from  their  hiding-place.  The  girl's 
brow  was  furrowed,  her  lips  parted  ;  there  was  a 
touch  of  fear— unconscious,  yet  visible — in  her 
silence. 

"  It  was  that  day,  while  you  and  he  were  walk- 
ing about  the  ruins,  that  a  flash  of  light  came  to 
me.  I  suppose  I  had  seen  it  before.  I  know  I 
had  been  unhappy  long  before  !  But  as  long  as 
one  can  hide  things  from  one's  self — it  seems  to 
make  them  not  true, — as  though  one's  own  will 
still  controlled  them.  But  that  day — after  our 
walk — when  we  came  back  and  found  you  on  the 
hill-side  !  How  was  it  your  fault  ?  Yet  I  could 
almost  have  believed  that  you  had  invented  the 
boys  and  the  stone  !  Certainly  he  spared  me 
nothing.  He  had  eyes  and  ears  only  for  you. 
After  he  brought  you  home  all  his  thoughts  were 
for  you.  Nobody  else's  fatigues  and  discomforts 
mattered  anything.  And  it  was  the  same  with 
Alice.  His  only  terrors  were  for  you.  When  he 
heard  that  she  was  coming,  he  had  no  alarms  for 
Aunt  Pattie  or  for  me.  But  you  must  be  shielded 
— you  must  be  saved  from  everything  repulsive 
or  shocking.  He  sat  up  last  night  to  protect  you 
^-and  even  in  his  sleep — he  heard  you." 
303 


Her  voice  dropped.  Eleanor  sat  staring  before 
her  into  the  golden  shadows  of  the  room,  afraid 
of  what  she  had  said,  instinctively  waiting  for  its 
effect  on  Lucy. 

And  Lucy  crouched  no  longer.  She  had 
drawn  herself  erect. 

"  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  is  it  kind — is  it  bearable — that 
you  should  say  these  things  to  me  ?  I  have  not 
deserved  them!  No!  no!  —  I  have  not.  What 
right  have  you?  I  can't  protect  myself— I  can't 
escape  you — but " 

Her  voice  shook.  There  was  in  it  a  passion  of 
anger,  pain,  loneliness,  and  yet  something  else — 
the  note  of  something  new-born  and  transform- 
ing. 

"  What  right  ?"  repeated  Eleanor,  in  low  tones 
— tones  almost  of  astonishment.  She  turned  to 
her  companion.  "  The  right  of  hunger — the  right 
of  poverty — the  right  of  one  pleading  for  a  last 
possession  ! — a  last  hope  !" 

Lucy  was  silenced.  The  passion  of  the  older 
woman  bore  her  down,  made  the  protest  of  her 
young  modesty  seem  a  mere  trifling  and  imper- 
tinence. Eleanor  had  slid  to  her  knees.  Her  face 
had  grown  tremulous  and  sweet.  A  strange  dig- 
nity quivered  in  the  smile  that  transformed  her 
mouth  as  she  caught  the  girl's  reluctant  hands 
and  drew  them  against  her  breast. 

"Is  it  forbidden  to  cry  out  when  grief — and 

loss — go  beyond  a  certain  point  ?    No  ! — I  think 

not.    I  couldn't  struggle  with  you — or  plot  against 

you — or  hate  you.     Those  things  are  not  in  my 

304 


power.  I  was  not  made  so.  But  what  forbids 
me  to  come  to  you  and  say  ? — '  I  have  suffered 
terribly.  I  had  a  dreary  home.  I  married,  igno- 
rantly,  a  man  who  made  me  miserable.  But  when 
my  boy  came,  that  made  up  for  all.  I  never 
grumbled.  I  never  envied  other  people  after 
that.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  all  I  deserved — and 
so  much,  much  more  than  many  !  Afterwards, 
when  I  woke  up  without  him  that  day  in  Switzer- 
land, there  was  only  one  thing  that  made  it  en- 
durable. I  overheard  the  Swiss  doctor  say  to 
my  maid — he  was  a  kind  old  man  and  very  sorry 
for  me — that  my  own  health  was  so  fragile  that 
I  shouldn't  live  long  to  pine  for  the  child.  But 
oh!  —  what  we  can  bear  and  not  die!  I  came 
back  to  my  father,  and  for  eight  years  I  never 
slept  without  crying — without  the  ghost  of  the 
boy's  head  against  my  breast.  Again  and  again 
I  used  to  wake  up  in  an  ecstasy,  feeling  it  there — 
feeling  the  curls  across  my  mouth.' "  A  deep 
sob  choked  her.  Lucy,  in  a  madness  of  pity, 
struggled  to  release  herself  that  she  might  throw 
her  arms  round  the  kneeling  figure.  But  Elea- 
nor's grasp  only  tightened.     She  hurried  on. 

**  But  last  year,  I  began  to  hope.  Everybody 
thought  badly  of  me  ;  the  doctors  spoke  very 
strongly  ;  and  even  papa  made  no  objection  when 
Aunt  Pattie  asked  me  to  come  to  Rome.  I  came 
to  Rome  in  a  strange  state — as  one  looks  at  things 
and  loves  them,  for  the  last  time,  before  a  jour- 
ney. And  then — well,  then  it  all  began  ! — new 
\ii»  for  me,  new  health.  The  only  happiness — 
.     305 


except  for  the  child — that  had  ever  come  my  way. 
I  know — oh  !  I  don't  deceive  myself — I  know  it 
was  not  the  same  to  Edward  as  to  me.  But  I 
don't  ask  much.  I  knew  he  had  given  the  best 
of  his  heart  to  other  women — long  ago — long  be- 
fore this.  But  the  old  loves  were  all  dead,  arwd  I 
could  almost  be  thankful  for  them.  They  had 
kept  him  for  me, I  thought, — tamed  and  exhausted 
him,  so  that  I — so  colorless  and  weak  compared 
to  those  others  ! — might  just  slip  into  his  heart 
and  find  the  way  open — that  he  might  just  take 
me  in,  and  be  glad,  for  sheer  weariness." 

She  dropped  Lucy's  hands,  and  rising,  she 
locked  her  own,  and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro  in 
the  great  room  ;  her  head  thrown  back,  her  senses 
turned  as  it  were  inward  upon  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  memory. 

Lucy  gazed  upon  her  in  bewilderment.  Then 
she  too  rose  and  approached  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"When  shall  I  go?"  she  said  simply.  "You 
must  help  me  to  arrange  it  with  Miss  Manisty. 
It  might  be  to-morrow — it  would  be  easy  to  find 
some  excuse." 

Eleanor  looked  at  her  with  a  convulsed  face. 

"That  would  help  nothing,"  she  said — "noth- 
ing !     He  would  guess  what  I  had  done." 

Lucy  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  broke 
out  piteously. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?" 

"  What  claim  have  I  that  you  should  do  any- 
thing?"   said    Eleanor    despairingly.      "I   don't 
know  what  I  wanted,  when  I  began  this  scene," 
306 


She  moved  on,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground 
— Lucy  beside  her. 

The  girl  had  drawn  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  arm 
through  her  own.  The  tears  were  on  her  cheek, 
but  she  was  thinking,  and  quite  calm. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  was 
almost  steady  —  "that  all  your  fears  are  quite, 
quite  vain.  Mr.  Manisty  feels  for  me  nothing  but 
a  little  kindness — he  could  feel  nothing  else.  It 
will  all  come  back  to  you — and  it  was  not  I  that 
took  it  away.  But — whatever  you  tell  me — what- 
ever you  ask,  I  will  do." 

With  a  catching  breath  Eleanor  turned  and 
threw  her  arm  round  the  girl's  neck. 

"  Stay,"  she  breathed — "  stay  for  a  few  days. 
Let  there  be  no  shock— nothing  to  challenge  him. 
Then  slip  away — don't  let  him  know  where — and 
there  is  one  woman  in  the  world  who  will  hold 
you  in  her  inmost  heart,  who  will  pray  for  you 
with  her  secretest,  sacredest  prayers,  as  long  as 
you  live  !" 

The  two  fell  into  each  other's  embrace.  Lucy, 
with  the  maternal  tenderness  that  should  have 
been  Eleanor's,  pressed  her  lips  on  the  hot  brow 
that  lay  upon  her  breast,  murmuring  words  of 
promise,  of  consolation,  of  self-reproach,  feeling 
her  whole  being  passing  out  to  Eleanor's  in  a 
great  tide  of  passionate  will  and  pity. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THEY  were  all  going  down  to  the  mid-day 
train  for  Rome. 

At  last  the  ambassador — who  had  been 
passing  through  a  series  of  political  and  domestic 
difficulties,  culminating  in  the  mutiny  of  his  Nea- 
politan cook  —  had  been  able  to  carry  out  his 
whim.  A  luncheon  had  been  arranged  for  the 
young  American  girl  who  had  taken  his  fancy. 
At  the  head  of  his  house  for  the  time  being  was 
his  married  daughter,  Lady  Mary,  who  had  come 
from  India  for  the  winter  to  look  after  her  babies 
and  her  father.  When  she  was  told  to  write  the 
notes  for  this  luncheon,  she  lifted  her  eyebrows 
in  good-humored  astonishment. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  ambassador,  "  we  have 
been  doing  our  duty  for  six  months — and  I  find 
it  pall !" 

He  had  been  entertaining  royalties  and  cabi- 
net ministers  in  heavy  succession,  and  his  daugh- 
ter understood.  There  was  an  element  of  insub- 
ordination in  her  father,  which  she  knew  better 
than  to  provoke. 

So  the  notes  were  sent. 
308 


"  Find  her  some  types,  my  dear,"  said  the  am- 
bassador ; — "and  a  little  of  everything." 

Lady  Mary  did  her  best.  She  invited  an  Ital- 
ian Marchesa  whom  she  had  heard  her  father  de- 
scribe as  "  the  ablest  woman  in  Rome,"  while  she 
herself  knew  her  as  one  of  the  most  graceful  and 
popular  ;  a  young  Lombard  land-owner  formerly 
in  the  navy,  now  much  connected  with  the  court, 
whose  blue  eyes  moreover  were  among  the  fa- 
mous things  of  the  day  ;  a  Danish  professor  and 
savant  who  was  also  a  rich  man,  collector  of  flints 
and  torques,  and  other  matters  of  importance  to 
primitive  man  ;  an  artist  or  two  ;  an  American 
monsignore  blessed  with  some  Irish  wit  and  much 
influence  ;  Reggie  Brooklyn,  of  course,  and  his 
sister  ;  Madame  Variani,  who  would  prevent  Mr. 
Manisty  from  talking  too  much  nonsense ;  and  a 
dull  English  admiral  and  his  wife,  official  guests, 
whom  the  ambassador  admitted  at  the  last  mo- 
ment with  a  groan,  as  still  representing  the  cold 
tyranny  of  duty  invading  his  snatch  of  pleasure. 

"And  Mr.  Bellasis,  papa?"  said  Lady  Mary, 
pausing,  pen  in  hand,  like  Fortitude  prepared  for 
all  extremities. 

"  Heavens,  no  !"  said  the  ambassador,  hastily. 
"  I  have  put  him  off  twice.  This  time  I  should 
have  to  read  him." 

Manisty  accordingly  was  smoking  on  the  bal- 
cony of  the  villa  while  he  waited  for  the  ladies 
to  appear.     Miss  Manisty,  who  was  already  suf- 
fering from  the  heat,  was  not  going.     The  fact 
309 


did  not  improve  Manisty's  temper.  Three  is  no 
company — that  we  all  know. 

If  Lady  Mary,  indeed,  had  only  planned  this 
luncheon  because  she  must,  Manisty  was  going 
to  it  under  a  far  more  impatient  sense  of  com- 
pulsion. It  would  be  a  sickening  waste  of  time. 
Nothing  now  had  any  attraction  for  him,  nothing 
seemed  to  him  desirable  or  important,  but  that 
conversation  with  Lucy  Foster  which  he  was 
bent  on  securing,  and  she  apparently  was  bent 
on  refusing  him. 

His  mind  was  full  of  the  sense  of  injury.  Dur- 
ing all  the  day  before,  while  he  had  been  making 
the  arrangements  for  his  unhappy  sister — during 
the  journeys  backward  and  forward  to  Rome — a 
delicious  image  had  filled  all  the  background  of 
his  thoughts,  the  image  of  the  white  Lucy,  help- 
less and  lovely,  lying  unconscious  in  his  chair. 

In  the  evening  he  could  hardly  command  his 
eagerness  sufficiently  to  help  his  tired  little  aunt 
up  the  steps  of  the  station,  and  put  her  safely  in 
her  cab,  before  hurrying  himself  up  the  steep 
short-cut  to  the  villa.  Should  he  find  her  per- 
haps on  the  balcony,  conscious  of  his  step  on  the 
path  below,  weak  and  shaken,  yet  ready  to  lift 
those  pure,  tender  eyes  of  hers  to  his  in  a  shy 
gratitude  ? 

He  had  found  no  one  on  the  balcony,  and  the 
evening  of  that  trying  day  had  been  one  of  baf- 
fling disappointment.  Eleanor  was  in  her  room, 
apparently  tired  out  by  the  adventures  of  the 
night  before  ;  and  although  Miss  Foster  appeared 
310 


at  dinner  she  had  withdrawn  immediately  after- 
wards, and  there  had  been  no  chance  for  any- 
thing but  the  most  perfunctory  conversation. 

She  had  said  of  course  all  the  proper  things, 
so  far  as  they  could  be  said.  "  I  trust  you  have 
been  able  to  make  the  arrangements  you  wished. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  and  I  have  been  so  sorry  !  Poor 
Miss  Manisty  must  have  had  a  very  tiring  day — " 

Bah  ! — he  could  not  have  believed  that  a  girl 
could  speak  so  formally,  so  trivially  to  a  man  who 
within  twenty-four  hours  had  saved  her  from  the 
attack  of  a  mad-woman.  For  that  was  what  it 
came  to — plainly.  Did  she  know  what  had  hap- 
pened ?  Had  her  swoon  blotted  it  all  out  ?  If 
so,  was  he  justified  in  revealing  it.  There  was 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  it  would  be  more  chival- 
rous towards  her,  and  kinder  towards  his  sister, 
if  he  left  the  veil  drawn,  seeing  that  she  seemed 
to  wish  it  so — if  he  said  no  more  about  her  fright, 
her  danger,  her  faint.  But  Manisty  was  not  ac- 
customed to  let  himself  be  governed  by  the 
scruples  of  men  more  precise  or  more  timid.  He 
wished  passionately  to  force  a  conversation  with 
her  more  intimate,  more  personal  than  any  one 
had  yet  allowed  him  ;  to  break  down  at  a  stroke 
most  if  not  all  of  the  barriers  that  separate  ac- 
quaintance from 

From  what?  He  stood,  cigarette  in  hand,  star- 
ing blindly  at  the  garden,  lost  in  an  intense  ques- 
tioning of  himself. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  back  again,  as  it 
were,  among  the  feelings  and  sensations  of  Lucy 
311 


Foster's  first  Sunday  at  the  villa  ;  his  repugnance 
towards  any  notion  of  marriage  ;  his  wonder  that 
anybody  should  suppose  that  he  had  any  imme- 
diate purpose  of  marrying  Eleanor  Burgoyne  ; 
the  mood,  half  lazy,  half  scornful,  in  which  he 
had  watched  Lucy,  in  her  prim  Sunday  dress, 
walking  along  the  avenue. 

What  had  attracted  him  to  this  girl  so  dif- 
ferent from  himself,  so  unacquainted  with  his 
world? 

There  was  her  beauty  of  course.  But  he  had 
passed  the  period  when  mere  beauty  is  enough. 
He  was  extremely  captious  and  difficult  to  please 
where  the  ordinary  pretty  woman  was  concerned. 
Her  arts  left  him  now  quite  unmoved.  Of  self- 
conscious  vanity  and  love  of  effect  he  had  him- 
self enough  and  to  spare.  He  could  not  mend 
himself ;  but  he  was  often  weary  of  his  own  weak- 
nesses, and  detested  them  in  other  people.  If 
Lucy  Foster  had  been  merely  a  beauty,  aware  of 
her  own  value,  and  bent  upon  making  him  aware 
of  it  also,  he  would  probably  have  been  as  care- 
less of  her  now  in  the  eighth  week  of  their  ac- 
quaintance as  he  had  been  in  the  first. 

But  it  was  a  beauty  so  innocent,  so  interfused 
with  suggestion,  with  an  enchanting  thrill  of 
prophecy  !  It  was  not  only  what  she  said  and 
looked,  but  what  a  man  might  divine  in  her — the 
"  white  fire  "  of  a  nature  most  pure,  most  passion- 
ate, that  somehow  flashed  through  her  maiden 
life  and  aspect,  fighting  with  the  restraints  im- 
posed upon  it.  and  constantly  transforming  what 
312 


might  otherwise  have  been  a  cold  seemliness  into 
a  soft  and  delicate  majesty 

In  short,  there  was  a  mystery  in  Lucy,  for  all 
her  simplicity;  —  a  mystery  of  feeling,  which 
piqued  and  held  the  fastidious  taste  of  Manisty 
It  was  this  which  made  her  loveliness  tell.  Her 
sincerity  was  so  rich  and  full,  that  it  became 
dramatic, — a  thing  to  watch,  for  the  mere  jcy  of 
the  fresh,  unfolding  spectacle.  She  was  quite 
unconscious  of  this  significance  of  hers.  Rather 
she  was  clearly  and  always  conscious  of  weakness, 
ignorance,  inexperience.  And  it  was  this  linger- 
ing childishness,  compared  with  the  rarity,  the 
strength,  the  tenderness  of  the  nature  just  emerg- 
ing from  the  sheath  of  first  youth,  that  made 
her  at  this  moment  so  exquisitely  attractive  to 
Manisty. 

In  the  presence  of  such  a  creature  marriage 
began  to  look  differently.  Like  many  men  with 
an  aristocratic  family  tradition,  who  have  lived 
for  a  time  as  though  they  despised  it,  there  were 
in  him  deep  stores  of  things  inherited  and  con- 
ventional which  re-emerged  at  the  fitting  moment. 
Manisty  disliked  and  had  thrown  aside  the  role 
of  country  gentleman  ;  because,  in  truth,  he  had 
not  money  enough  to  play  it  magnificently,  and 
he  had  set  himself  against  marriage  ;  because  no 
woman  had  yet  appeared  to  make  the  probable 
boredoms  of  it  worth  while. 

But  now,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  bal- 
cony, plunged  in  meditation,  he  began  to  think 
with  a  new  tolerance  of  the  English  cadre  and 
313 


the  English  life.  He  remembered  all  those  il- 
lustrious or  comely  husbands  and  wives,  his  fore- 
bears, whose  portraits  hung  on  the  walls  of  his 
neglected  house.  For  the  first  time  it  thrilled 
him  to  imagine  a  new  mistress  of  the  house — 
young,  graceful,  noble  —  moving  about  below 
them.  And  even  —  for  the  first  time  —  there 
gleamed  from  out  the  future,  the  dim  features  of 
a  son,  and  he  did  not  recoil.  He  caressed  the 
whole  dream  with  a  new  and  strange  complacency. 
What  if  after  all  the  beaten  roads  are  best  ? 

To  the  old  paths,  my  soul ! 

Then  he  paused,  in  a  sudden  chill  of  realiza- 
tion. His  thoughts  might  rove  as  they  please. 
But  Lucy  Foster  had  given  them  little  warrant. 
To  all  her  growing  spell  upon  him,  there  was 
added  indeed  the  charm  of  difficulty  foreseen, 
and  delighted  in.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that 
he  puzzled  and  attracted  her.  And  he  was  per- 
fectly aware  also  of  his  own  power  with  women, 
often  cynically  aware  of  it.  But  he  could  not 
flatter  himself  that  so  far  he  had  any  hold  over 
the  senses  or  the  heart  of  Lucy  Foster.  He 
thought  of  her  eager  praise  of  his  Palestine  let- 
ters— of  the  Nemi  tale.  She  was  franker,  more 
enthusiastic  than  an  English  girl  would  have 
been — and  at  the  same  time  more  remote,  in- 
finitely more  incalculable  ! 

His  mind  filled  with  a  delicious  mingling  of 
desire  and  doubt.  He  foresaw  the  dim  approach 
of  new  emotions, — of  spells  to  make  "  the  colors 
314 


freshen  on  this  threadbare  world."  All  his  life 
he  had  been  an  epicurean,  in  search  of  pleasures 
beyond  the  ken  of  the  crowd.  It  was  pleasure 
of  this  kind  that  beckoned  to  him  now, — in  the 
wooing,  the  conquering,  the  developing  of  Lucy. 

A  voice  struck  on  his  ear.  It  was  Eleanor  call- 
ing to  Lucy  from  the  salon. 

Ah! — Eleanor?  A  rush  of  feeling — half  gen- 
erous, half  audacious — came  upon  him.  He  knew 
that  he  had  given  her  pain  at  Nemi.  He  had 
been  a  brute,  an  ungrateful  brute  !  Women  like 
Eleanor  have  very  exalted  and  sensitive  ideals  of 
friendship.  He  understood  that  he  had  pulled 
down  Eleanor's  ideal,  that  he  had  wounded  her 
sorely.  What  did  she  expect  of  him?  Not  any 
of  the  things  which  the  ignorant  or  vulgar  by- 
stander expected  of  him  —  that  he  was  certain. 
But  still  her  claim  had  wearied  him  ;  and  he  had 
brushed  it  aside.  His  sulkiness  about  the  book 
had  been  odious,  indefensible.  And  yet — perhaps 
from  another  point  of  view — it  had  not  been  a 
bad  thing  for  either  of  them.  It  had  broken 
through  habits  which  had  become,  surely,  an  em- 
barrassment to  both. 

But  now,  let  him  make  amends  ;  select  fresh 
ground  ;  and  from  it  rebuild  their  friendship 
His  mind  ran  forward  hazily  to  some  bold  con- 
fidence or  other,  some  dramatic  appeal  to  Elea- 
nor for  sympathy  and  help. 

The   affection  between   her  and   Miss   Foster 
seemed  to  be  growing  closer.      He   thought   of 
it  uncomfortably,  and  with  vague  plannings  of 
315 


counter -strokes.  It  did  not  suit  him  —  nay,  it 
presented  itself  somehow  as  an  obstacle  in  his 
path.  For  he  had  a  half-remorseful,  half-humor- 
ous feeling  that  Eleanor  knew  him  too  well. 

"Ah!  my  dear  lady,"  said  the  ambassador — 
"  how  few  things  in  this  world  one  does  to  please 
one's  self  !     This  is  one  of  them." 

Lucy  flushed  with  a  young  and  natural  pleasure. 
She  was  on  the  ambassador's  left,  and  he  had 
just  laid  his  wrinkled  hand  for  an  instant  on  hers 
— with  a  charming  and  paternal  freedom. 

"Have  you  enjoyed  yourself? — Have  you  lost 
your  heart  to  Italy  ?"  said  her  host,  stooping  to 
her.  He  was  amused  to  see  the  transformation 
in  her — the  pretty  dress,  the  developed  beauty. 

"  I  have  been  in  fairy-land,"  said  Lucy,  shyly, 
opening  her  blue  eyes  upon  him.  "  Nothing  can 
ever  be  like  it  again." 

"  No — because  one  can  never  be  twenty  again," 
said  the  old  man,  sighing.  '*  Twenty  years  hence 
you  will  wonder  where  the  magic  came  from. 
Never  mind — just  now,  anyway,  the  world's  your 
oyster." 

Then  he  looked  at  her  a  little  more  closely. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that,  though  she  was 
handsomer,  she  was  not  so  happy.  He  missed 
some  of  that  quiver  of  youth  and  enjoyment  he 
had  felt  in  her  before,  and  there  were  some  very 
dark  lines  under  the  beautiful  eyes.  What  was 
wrong?  Had  she  met  the  man  —  the  appointed 
one? 

316 


He  began  to  talk  to  her  with  a  kindness  that 
was  at  once  simple  and  stately. 

"  We  must  all  have  our  ups  and  downs,"  he  said 
to  her  presently.  "  Let  me  just  give  you  a  word 
of  advice.  It'll  carry  you  through  most  of  them. 
Remember  you  are  very  young,  and  I  shall  soon 
be  very  old." 

He  stopped  and  surveyed  her.  His  kind  humor- 
ous eyes  blinked  through  their  blanched  lashes. 
Lucy  dropped  her  fork  and  looked  back  at  him 
with  smiling  expectancy. 

"  Learn  Persian  r  said  the  old  man  in  an  ur- 
gent whisper — "  and  get  the  dictionary  by  heart !" 

Lucy  still  looked — wondering. 

**I  finished  it  this  morning,"  said  the  ambas- 
sador, in  her  ear.  "To-morrow  I  shall  begin  it 
again.  My  daughter  hates  the  sight  of  the  thing. 
She  says  I  overtire  myself,  and  that  when  old 
people  have  done  their  work  they  should  take  a 
nap.  But  I  know  that  if  it  weren't  for  my  dic- 
tionary, I  should  have  given  up  long  ago.  When 
too  many  tiresome  people  dine  here  in  the  even- 
ing— or  when  they  worry  me  from  home — I  take 
a  column.  But  generally  half  a  column's  enough 
— good  tough  Persian  roots,  and  no  nonsense. 
Oh !  of  course  I  can  read  Hafiz  and  Omar  Khay- 
yam, and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But  that's  the 
whipped  cream.  That  don't  count.'  What  one 
wants  is  something  to  set  one's  teeth  in.  Latin 
verse  will  do.  Last  year  I  put  half  Tommy 
Moore' into  hendecasyllables.  But  my  youngest 
boy  who's  at  Oxford,  said  he  wouldn't  be  respon- 
317 


sible  /or  them — so  I  had  to  desist.  And  I  sup- 
pose the  mathematicians  have  always  something 
handy.  But,  one  way  or  another,  one  must  learn 
one's  dictionary.  It  comes  next  to  cultivating 
one's  garden.  Now  Mr.  Manisty — how  is  he  pro- 
vided in  that  way  ?" 

His  sudden  question  took  Lucy  by  surprise, 
and  the  quick  rise  of  color  in  the  clear  cheeks 
did  not  escape  him. 

"  Well — I  suppose  he  has  his  book  ?'  she  said, 
smiling. 

"  Oh  !  no  use  at  all !  He  can  do  what  he  likes 
with  his  book.  But  you  can't  do  what  you  like 
with  the  dictionary.  You  must  take  it  or  leave 
it.  That's  what  makes  it  so  reposeful.  Now  if  I 
were  asked,  I  could  soon  find  some  Persian  roots 
for  Mr.  Manisty — to  be  taken  every  day  !" 

Lucy  glanced  across  the  table.  Her  eyes  fell, 
and  she  said  in  the  low  full  voice  that  delighted 
the  old  man's  ears  : 

"  I  suppose  you  would  send  him  home  ?" 

The  ambassador  nodded. 

"  Tenants,  turnips,  and  Petty  Sessions  !  Per- 
sian's pleasanter — but  those  would  serve." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  said  seriously,  un- 
der the  cover  of  a  loud  buzz  of  talk,  ''  He's  wast- 
ing his  time,  dear  lady  —  there's  no  doubt  of 
that." 

Lucy  still  looked  down,  but  her  attitude 
changed  imperceptibly.  "  The  subject  inter- 
ests her!"  thought  the  old  man.  "  It's  a  thou- 
sand pities,"  he  resumed,  with  the  caution,  masked 
318 


by  the  ease,  of  the  diplomat,  "  he  came  out  here 
in  a  fit  of  pique.  He  saw  false — and  as  far  as  I 
can  hear,  the  book's  a  mistake.  Yet  it  was  not  a 
bad  subject.  Italy  is  just  now  an  object-lesson  and 
a  warning.  But  our  friend  there  could  not  have 
taken  it  more  perversely.  He  has  chosen  to  attack 
not  the  violence  of  the  Church — but  the  weakness 
of  the  State.  And  meanwhile — if  I  may  be  al- 
lowed lo  say  so — his  own  position  is  something 
of  an  offence.  Religion  is  too  big  a  pawn  for  any 
man's  personal  game.  Don't  you  agree  ?  Often 
I  feel  inclined  to  apply  to  him  the  saying  about 
Benjamin  Constant  and  liberty — '  Grand  homme 
devant  la  religion — s'il  y  croyait !' 

"  I  compare  with  him  a  poor  old  persecuted 
priest  I  know — Manisty  knows  too. — Ah  !  well,  I 
hear  the  book  is  very  brilliant — and  venomous 
to  a  degree.  It  will  be  read  of  course.  He  has 
the  power  to  be  read.  But  it  is  a  blunder — if  not 
a  crime.  And  meanwhile  he  is  throwing  away 
all  his  chances.  I  knew  his  father.  I  don't  like 
to  see  him  beating  the  air.  If  you  have  any  in- 
fluence with  him  " — the  old  man  smiled — "  send 
him  home  !  Or  Mrs.  Burgoyne  there.  He  used 
to  listen  to  her." 

A  great  pang  gripped  Lucy's  heart. 

"  I  should  think  he  always  took  his  own  way," 
she  said,  with  difficulty.  "  Mr.  Neal  sometimes 
advises  him." 

The  ambassador's  shrewd  glance  rested  upon 
her  for  a  moment.     Then  without  another  word 
he  turned  away,     "  Reggie  !"  he  said,  addressing 
319 


young  Brooklyn,  "  you  seem  to  be  ill  -  treating 
Madame  Variani,     Must  I  interpose  ?" 

Reggie  and  his  companion,  who  were  in  a  full 
tide  of  "chaff"  and  laughter,  turned  towards 
him. 

"  Sir,"  said  Brooklyn,  "  Madame  Variani  is  at- 
tacking my  best  friend." 

"  Many  of  us  find  that  agreeable,"  said  the  am- 
bassador. 

"  Ah  !  but  she  makes  it  so  personal,"  said  Reg- 
gie, dallying  with  his  banana.  "  She  abuses  him 
because  he's  not  married — and  calls  him  a  selfish 
fop.  Now  Pm  not  married — and  I  object  to  these 
wholesale  classifications.  Besides,  my  friend  has 
the  most  conclusive  answer." 

"  I  wait  for  it,"  said  MadameVariani. 

Reggie  delicately  unsheathed  his  banana. 

"  Well,  some  of  us  once  inquired  what  he  meant 
by  it,  and  he  said  :  *  My  dear  fellow,  I've  asked 
all  the  beautiful  women  I  know  to  marry  me,  and 
they  won't !  Now  ! — I'd  be  content  with  cleanli- 
ness and  conduct.' " 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  in  the  midst  of 
which  Reggie  remarked  : 

"  I  thought  it  the  most  touching  situation — but 
Madame  Variani  has  the  heart  of  a  stone." 

Madame  Variani  looked  down  upon  him  un- 
moved. She  and  the  charming  lad  were  fast 
friends. 

*'I  will  wager  you  he  never  asked,"  she  said 
quietly. 

Reggie  protested. 

320 


/■ 


"  No— he  never  asked.  Englishmen  don't  ask 
ladies  to  marry  them  any  more." 

"  Let  Madame  Variani  prove  her  point,"  said 
the  ambassador,  raising  one  white  hand  above 
the  hubbub,  while  he  hollowed  the  other  round 
his  deaf  ear.  "This  is  a  most  interesting  dis- 
cussion." 

"  But  it  is  known  to  all  that  Englishmen  don't 
get  married  any  more  !"  cried  Madame  Variani. 
"  I  read  in  an  English  novel  the  other  day  that 
it  is  spoiling  your  English  society,  that  the 
charming  girls  wait  and  wait — and  nobody  mar- 
ries them." 

"Well,  there  are  no  English  young  ladies  pres- 
ent," said  the  ambassador,  looking  round  the 
table  ;  "  so  we  may  proceed.  How  do  you  ac- 
count for  this  phenomenon,  madame?" 

"  Oh  !  you  have  now  too  many  French  cooks 
in  England  !"  said  Madame  Variani,  shrugging 
her  plump  shoulders. 

"  What  in  the  world  has  that  got  to  do  with 
it?"  cried  the  ambassador. 

"  Your  young  men  are  too  comfortable,"  said 
the  lady,  with  a  calm  wave  of  the  hand  towards 
Reggie  Brooklyn.  "  That's  what  I  am  told.  I 
ask  an  English  lady,  who  knows  both  France  and 
England — and  she  tells  me — your  young  men  get 
now  such  good  cooking  at  their  clubs,  and  at  the 
messes  of  their  regiments — and  their  sports  amuse 
them  so  well,  and  cost  so  much  money  —  they 
don't  want  any  wives  !  —  they  are  not  interested 
any  more  in  the  girls.  That  is  the  difference  be- 
321 


tween  them  and  the  Frenchman.  The  French- 
man is  still  interested  in  the  ladies.  After  din- 
ner the  Frenchman  wants  to  go  and  sit  with  the 
ladies  —  the  Englishman,  no  !  That  is  why  the 
French  are  still  agreeable." 

The  small  black  eyes  of  the  speaker  sparkled, 
but  otherwise  she  looked  round  with  challenging 
serenity  on  the  English  and  Americans  around 
her.  Madame  Variani  —  stout,  clever,  middle- 
aged,  and  disinterested  —  had  a  position  of  her 
own  in  Rome.  She  was  the  correspondent  of  a 
leading  French  paper  ;  she  had  many  English 
friends  ;  and  she  and  the  Marchesa  Fazzoleni,  at 
the  ambassador's  right  hand,  had  just  been  do- 
ing wonders  for  th.  relief  of  the  Italian  sick  and 
wounded  after  the  miserable  campaign  of  Adowa. 

"Oh!  I  hide  my  diminished  head!"  said  the 
old  ambassador,  taking  his  white  locks  in  both 
hands.  '*  All  I  know  is,  I  have  sent  twenty  wed- 
ding-presents already  this  year — and  that  the 
state  of  my  banking -account  is  wholly  incon- 
sistent with  these  theories." 

"Ah!  you  are  exceptional,"  said  the  lady. 
"Only  this  morning  I  get  an  account  of  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman  of  my  acquaintance.  He  is  near- 
ly forty — he  possesses  a  large  estate — his  mother 
and  sisters  are  on  their  knees  to  him  to  marry — 
it  will  all  go  to  a  cousin,  and  the  cousin  has  forged 
— or  something.  And  he — not  he  !  He  don't 
care  what  happens  to  the  estate.  He  has  only 
got  the  one  life,  he  says — and  he  won't  spoil  it. 
And  of  course  it  does  your  women  harm !  Women 
322 


are  always  dull  when  the  men  don't  court 
:;hem!" 

The  table  laughed.  Lucy,  looking  down  it, 
caught  first  the  face  of  Eleanor  Burgoyne,  and 
in  the  distance  Manisty's  black  head  and  absent 
smile.  The  girl's  young  mind  was  captured  by 
a  sudden  ghastly  sense  of  the  human  realities 
underlying  the  gay  aspects  and  talk  of  the  lunch- 
eon-table. It  seemed  to  her  she  still  heard  that 
heart-rending  voice  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne  :  "  Oh  !  I 
never  dreamed  it  could  be  the  same  for  him  as 
for  me.     I  didn't  ask  much." 

She  dreaded  to  let  herself  think.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  suffering  must  reveal 
itself  to  all  the  world,  and  the  girl  had  moments 
of  hot  shame,  as  though  for  herself.  To  her  eyes, 
the  change  in  aspect  and  expression,  visible 
through  all  the  elegance  and  care  of  dress,  was 
already  terrible. 

Oh  !  why  had  she  come  to  Rome  ?  What  had 
changed  the  world  so  ?  Some  wounded  writhing 
thing  seemed  to  be  struggling  in  her  own  breast 
— while  she  was  holding  it  down,  trying  to  thrust 
it  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

She  had  written  to  Uncle  Ben,  and  to  the  Por- 
ters. To  -  morrow  she  must  break  it  to  Aunt 
Pattie  that  she  could  not  go  to  Vallombrosa,  and 
must  hurry  back  to  England.  The  girl's  pure 
conscience  was  tortured  already  by  the  thought 
of  the  excuses  she  would  have  to  invent.  And 
not  a  word,  till  Mr.  Manisty  was  safely  started 
on  his  way  to  that  function  at  the  Vatican  which 
323 


he  was  already  grumbling  over,  which  he  would 
certainly  shirk  if  he  could.  But,  thank  Heaven, 
it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  shirk  it. 

Again  her  eyes  crossed  those  of  Manisty.  He 
was  now  discussing  the  strength  of  parties  in 
the  recent  Roman  municipal  elections  with  the 
American  monsignore,  talking  with  all  his  usual 
vehemence.  Nevertheless,  through  it  all,  it  seem- 
ed to  her,  that  she  was  watched,  that  in  some  con- 
tinuous and  subtle  way  he  held  her  in  sight. 

How  cold  and  ungrateful  he  must  have  thought 
her  the  night  before!  To-day,  at  breakfast,  and 
in  the  train,  he  had  hardly  spoken  to  her. 

Yet — mysteriously — Lucy  felt  herself  threat- 
ened, hard  pressed.  Alice  Manisty's  talk  in  that 
wild  night,  haunted  her  ear.  Her  hand,  cold  and 
tremulous,  shook  on  her  knee.  Even  the  voice 
of  the  ambassador  startled  her. 

After  luncheon  the  ambassador's  guests  fell 
into  groups  on  the  large  shady  lawn  of  the  Em- 
bassy garden. 

The  ambassador  introduced  Lucy  to  the  blue- 
eyed  Lombard,  Fioravanti,  while  he,  pricked  with 
a  rueful  sense  of  duty,  devoted  himself  for  a  time 
to  the  wife  of  the  English  admiral  who  had  been 
Lady  Mary's  neighbor  at  luncheon.  The  am- 
bassador examined  her  through  his  half-closed 
eyes,  as  he  meekly  offered  to  escort  her  in-doors 
to  see  his  pictures.  She  was  an  elegant  and  fash- 
ionable woman  with  very  white  and  regular  false 
teeth.  Her  looks  were  conventional  and  mild. 
In  reality  the  ambassador  knew  her  to  be  a  T^r 
324 


tar.  He  walked  languidly  beside  her ;  his  hands 
were  lightly  crossed  before  him  ;  his  white  head 
drooped  under  the  old  wide-awake  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  wear  in  the  garden. 

Meanwhile  the  gallant  and  bewhiskered  ad- 
miral would  have  liked  to  secure  Manisty's  atten- 
tion. To  get  hold  of  a  politician,  or  something 
near  a  politician,  and  explain  to  them  a  new 
method  of  fusing  metals  in  which  he  believed, 
represented  for  him  the  main  object  of  all  social 
functions. 

But  Manisty  peremptorily  shook  him  off.  Elea- 
nor, the  American  monsignore,and  Reggie  Brook- 
lyn were  strolling  near.  He  retreated  upon  them. 
Eleanor  addressed  some  question  to  him,  but  he 
scarcely  answered  her.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a 
brown  study,  and  walked  on  beside  her  in  si- 
lence. 

Reggie  fell  back  a  few  paces,  and  watched  them. 

"  What  a  bear  he  can  be  when  he  chooses  !"  the 
boy  said  to  himself  indignantly.  "  And  how  de- 
pressed Eleanor  looks  !  Some  fresh  worry  I  sup- 
pose— and  all  his  fault.     Now  look  at  that !" 

For  another  group  —  Lucy,  her  new  acquaint- 
ance the  count,  and  Madame  Variani  —  had 
crossed  the  path  of  the  first.  And  Manisty  had 
left  Eleanor's  side  to  approach  Miss  Foster.  All 
trace  of  abstraction  was  gone.  He  looked  ill  at 
ease,  and  yet  excited  ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  girl.  He  stooped  towards  her,  speaking  in  a 
low  voice. 

"There's  something  up" — thought  Brooklyn. 
325 


"  And  if  that  girrs  any  hand  in  it  she  ought  to 
be  cut !     I  thought  she  was  a  nice  girl." 

His  blue  eyes  stared  fiercely  at  the  little  scene. 
Since  the  day  at  Nemi,  the  boy  had  understood 
half  at  least  of  the  situation.  He  had  perceived 
then  that  Eleanor  was  miserably  unhappy.  No 
doubt  Manisty  was  disappointing  and  tormenting 
her.     What  else  could  she  expect  ? 

But  really — that  she  should  be  forsaken  and 
neglected  for  this  chit  of  a  girl — this  interloping 
American  —  it  was  too  much  !  Reggie's  wrath 
glowed  within  him. 

Meanwhile  Manisty  addressed  Lucy.    ^ 

"  I  have  something  I  very  much  wish  to  say  to 
you.  There  is  a  seat  by  the  fountain,  quite  in 
shade.     Will  you  try  it  ?" 

She  glanced  hurriedly  at  her  companions. 

"  Thank  you — I  think  we  were  going  to  look  at 
the  rose-walk." 

Manisty  gave  an  angry  laugh,  said  something 
inaudible,  and  walked  impetuously  away  ;  only 
to  be  captured  however  by  the  Danish  professor, 
Doctor  Jensen,  who  took  no  account  of  bad  man- 
ners in  an  Englishman,  holding  them  as  natural 
as  daylight.  The  flaxen -haired  savant  there- 
fore was  soon  happily  engaged  in  pouring  out 
upon  his  impatient  companion  the  whole  of  the 
latest  Boletino  of  the  Accademia. 

Meanwhile  Lucy,  seeing  nothing,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  of  the  beauty  of  the  Embassy  garden,  fol- 
lowed her  two  companions  and  soon  found  her- 
self sitting  with  them  on  a  stone  seat  beneath  a 
326 


spreading  ilex.  In  front  was  a  tangled  mass  oi 
roses  ;  beyond,  an  old  bit  of  wall  with  Roman 
foundations  ;  and  in  the  hot  blue  sky  above  the 
wall,  between  two  black  cypresses,  a  slender  brown 
Campanile  —  farthest  of  all  a  glimpse  of  Sabine 
mountains.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  the  roses,  with  the  heat  that  announced  the 
coming  June,  with  that  indefinable  meaning  and 
magic,  which  is  Rome. 

Lucy  drooped  and  was  silent.  The  young  Count 
Fioravanti  however  was  not  the  person  either  to 
divine  oppression  in  another  or  to  feel  it  for  him- 
self. He  sat  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
smoking  and  twisting  his  cane,  displaying  to  the 
fullest  advantage  those  china-blue  eyes,  under  the 
blackest  of  curls,  which  made  him  so  popular  in 
Rome.  His  irregular  and  most  animated  face 
was  full  of  talent  and  wilfulness.  He  liked  Ma- 
dame Variani,  and  thought  the  American  girl 
handsome.  But  it  mattered  very  little  to  him 
with  whom  he  talked  ;  he  could  have  chattered 
to  a  tree-stump.  He  was  overflowing  with  the 
mere  interest  and  jollity  of  life. 

"Have  you  known  Mr.  Manisty  long?"  he 
asked  of  Lucy,  while  his  gay  look  followed  the 
professor  and  his  captive. 

"  I  have  been  staying  with  them  for  six  weeks 
at  Marinata." 

"  What — to  finish  the  book  ?"  he  said,  laughing 

"  Mr.  Manisty  hoped  to  finish  it." 

The   count    laughed   again,   more   loudly  and 
good-humoredly,  and  shook  his  head. 
327 


"Oh  !  he  won't  finish  it.  It's  a  folly  !  And  I 
know,  for  I  made  him  read  some  of  it  to  me  and 
my  sister.  No  ;  it  is  a  strange  case — is  Manisty's. 
Most  Englishmen  have  two  sides  to  their  brain — 
while  we  Latins  have  only  one.  But  Manisty  is 
like  a  Latin — he  has  only  one.  He  takes  a  whim 
— and  then  he  must  cut  and  carve  the  world  to  it. 
But  the  world  is  tough — et  ga  ne  marche  pas ! 
We  can't  go  to  ruin  to  please  him.  Italy  is  not 
falling  to  pieces — not  at  all.  This  war  has  been 
a  horror — but  we  shall  get  through.  And  there 
will  be  no  revolution.  The  people  in  the  streets 
won't  cheer  the  King  and  Queen  for  a  little  bit 
— but  next  year,  you  will  see,  the  House  of  Savoy 
will  be  there  all  the  same.  And  he  thinks  that 
our  priests  will  destroy  us.  Not  at  all.  We  can 
manage  our  priests !" 

Madame  Variani  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 
Her  heavy,  handsome  face  was  turned  upon  him 
rather  sleepily,  as  though  the  heat  oppressed  her. 
But  her  slight  frown  betrayed,  to  any  one  who 
knew  her,  alert  attention. 

*'  We  can,  I  say  !"  cried  the  count,  striking  his 
knee.  "  Besides,  the  battle  is  not  ranged  as  Man- 
isty sees  it.  There  are  priests,  and  priests.  Up 
in  my  part  of  the  world  the  older  priests  are  all 
right.  We  land-owners  who  go  with  the  mon- 
archy can  get  on  with  them  perfectly.  Our  old 
bishop  is  a  dear  :  but  it  is  the  young  priests,  fresh 
from  the  seminaries — I  grant  you,  they're  a  nui- 
sance !  They  swarm  over  us  like  locusts,  ready 
for  any  bit  of  mischief  against  the  government. 
328 


But  the  government  will  win  ! — Italy  will  win  ! 
Manisty  first  of  all  takes  the  thing  too  tragically. 
He  doesn't  see  the  farce  in  it.  We  do.  We  Ital- 
ians understand  each  other.  Why,  the  Vatican 
raves  and  scolds — and  all  the  while,  as  the  prefect 
of  police  told  me  only  the  other  day,  there  is  a 
whole  code  of  signals  ready  between  the  police 
headquarters  and  a  certain  window  of  the  Vati- 
can ;  so  that  directly  they  want  help  against  the 
populace  they  can  call  us  in.  And  after  that 
function  the  other  day — where  I  saw  you,  ma- 
demoiselle " —  he  bowed  to  Lucy — "one  of  the 
first  things  the  Vatican  did  was  to  send  their 
thanks  to  the  government  for  having  protected 
and  policed  them  so  well.  No  ;  Manisty  is  in  the 
clouds."  He  laughed  good -humoredly.  "We 
are  half  acting  all  the  time.  The  Clericals  must 
have  their  politics,  like  other  people — only  they 
call  it  religion." 

"But  your  poor  starved  peasants  —  and  your 
corruption — and  your  war?"  said  Lucy. 

She  spoke  with  energy,  frowning  a  little  as 
though  something  had  nettled  her.  "  She  is  like 
a  beautiful  nun,"  thought  the  young  man,  look- 
ing with  admiration  at  the  austere  yet  charming 
face. 

"  Oh  !  we  shall  pull  through,"  he  said,  coolly. 
"  The  war  was  an  abomination — a  misery.  But 
we  shall  learn  from  it.  It  will  no  more  ruin  us 
than  a  winter  storm  can  ruin  the  seed  in  the 
ground.  Manisty  is  like  all  the  other  clever 
foreigners  who  write  dirges  about  us — they  don't 

M  329 


feel  the  life-blood  pulsing  through  the  veins  as 
we  land-owners  do."  He  flung  out  his  clasped 
hand  in  a  dramatic  gesture.  "Come  and  live 
with  us  for  a  summer  on  one  of  our  big  farms 
near  Mantua — and  you  shall  see.  My  land  brings 
me  just  double  what  it  brought  my  father  ! — and 
our  contadini  are  twice  as  well  off.  There !  that's 
in  our  starving  Italy  —  in  the  north  of  course, 
mind  you  !" 

He  threw  himself  back,  smoking  furiously. 

"  Optimist  !"  said  a  woman's  voice. 

They  looked  round  to  see  the  Marchesa  Faz- 
zoleni  upon  them.  She  stood  smiling,  cigarette 
in  hand,  a  tall  woman,  still  young  —  though  she 
was  the  mother  of  five  robust  children.  Her 
closely  fitting  black  dress  somehow  resembled  a 
riding-habit ;  her  gray  gauntleted  gloves  drawn 
to  the  elbow,  her  Amazon's  hat  with  its  plume, 
the  alertness  and  grace  of  the  whole  attitude,  the 
brilliancy  of  her  clear  black  eye — all  these  carried 
with  them  the  same  suggestions  of  open-air  life, 
of  health  of  body  and  mind — of  a  joyous,  noble, 
and  powerful  personality. 

"  Look  well  at  her,"  the  ambassador  had  said 
to  Lucy  as  they  stepped  into  the  garden  after 
luncheon.  "  She  is  one  of  the  mothers  of  the  new 
Italy.  She  is  doing  things  here — things  for  the 
future — that  in  England  it  would  take  twenty 
women  to  do.  She  has  all  the  practical  sense  of 
the  north  ;  and  all  the  subtlety  of  the  south. 
She  is  one  of  the  people  who  make  me  feel  that 
Italy  and  England  have  somehow  mysterious 
330 


affinities  that  will  work  themselves  out  in  his- 
tory. It  seems  to  me  that  I  could  understand  all 
her  thoughts — and  she  mine — if  it  were  worth  hel 
while.  She  is  a  modern  of  the  moderns  ;  and  yet 
there  is  in  her  some  of  the  oldest  stuff  in  the 
world.  She  belongs,  it  is  true,  to  a  nation  in  the 
making  —  but  that  nation,  in  its  earlier  forms, 
has  already  carried  the  whole  weight  of  European 
history  !" 

And  Lucy,  looking  up  to  the  warm^  kind  face, 
felt  vaguely  comforted  and  calmed  by  its  mere 
presence.  She  made  room  for  the  Marchesa  be- 
side her. 

But  the  Marchesa  declared  that  she  must  ^o 
home  and  drag  one  of  her  boys,  who  was  study- 
ing for  an  examination,  out  for  exercise,  ''  Oh  ! 
these  examinations — they  are  horrors  T  she  said, 
throwing  up  her  hands.  "  No — these  poor  boys  ! 
— and  they  have  no  games  like  the  English  boys. 
But  you  were  speaking  about  the  war — about  our 
poor  Italy  ?" 

She  paused.  She  laid  her  hand  on  Lucy's 
shoulder  and  looked  down  into  the  girl's  face. 
Her  eyes  became  for  a  moment  veiled  and  misty, 
as  though  ghosts  passed  before  them — the  grisly 
calamities  and  slaughters  of  the  war  Then  they 
cleared  and  sparkled. 

*'  I  tell  you,  mademoiselle,"  she  said  slowly,  in 
her  difficult  picturesque  English,  "  that  what  Italy 
has  done  in  forty  years  is  colossal ! — not  to  be  be- 
lieved! You  have  taken  a  hundred  years — you! 
— to  make  a  nation,  and  you  have  had  a  big  civil 
331 


war.  Forty  years — not  quite ! — since  Cavour  died. 
And  all  that  time  Italy  has  been  like  that  caul- 
dron— you  remember? — into  which  they  threw 
the  members  of  that  old  man  who  was  to  become 
young.  There  had  been  a  bubbling,  and  a  ferment- 
ing !  And  the  scum  has  come  up — and  up.  And 
it  comes  up  still — and  the  brewing  goes  on.  But 
in  the  end  the  young  strong  nation  will  step  forth. 
Now  Mr.  Manisty — oh !  I  like  Mr.  Manisty  very 
well ! — but  he  sees  only  the  ugly  gases  and  the 
tumult  of  the  cauldron.     He  has  no  idea " 

'  Oh'  Manisty,"  said  the  young  count,  flinging 
away  his  cigarette  ;  "  he  is  a  poseur  of  course. 
His  Italian  friends  don't  mind.  He  has  his  Eng- 
lish fish  to  fry.     Sans  cela r 

He  bent  forward,  staring  at  Lucy  in  a  boyish 
absent  -  mindedness  which  was  no  discourtesy, 
while  his  hat  slipped  farther  down  the  back  of 
his  curly  head.  His  attitude  was  all  careless 
good-humor ;  yet  one  might  have  felt  a  touch  of 
southern  passion  not  far  off. 

"  No  ;  his  Italian  friends  don't  mind,"  said 
Madame  Variani.  "  But  his  English  friends 
should  look  after  him.  Everybody  should  be 
angry  wid  som-thin — it  is  good  for  the  charac- 
ter ;  but  Mr.  Manisty  is  angry  wid  too  many 
things.     That  is  stupid — that  is  a  waste  of  time." 

"  His  book  is  a  blunder,"  said  Fioravanti  with 
decision.  "  By  the  time  it  is  out,  it  will  look  ab- 
surd. He  says  we  have  become  atheists,  because 
we  don't  let  the  priests  have  it  all  their  own  way. 
Bah!  we  understand  these  gentry  better  than  he 
332 


does.  Why  !  my  father  was  all  for  the  advance 
on  Rome — he  was  a  member  of  the  first  govern- 
ment after  1870 — he  wouldn't  give  way  to  the 
Clericals  an  inch  in  what  he  thought  was  for  the 
good  of  the  country.  But  he  was  the  most  re- 
ligious man  T  ever  knew.  He  never  missed  any 
of  the  old  observances  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up.  He  taught  us  the  same.  Every 
Sunday  after  Mass  he  read  the  Gospel  for  the 
day  to  us  in  Italian,  and  explained  it.  And 
when  he  was  dying  he  sent  for  his  old  parish 
priest — who  used  to  denounce  him  from  the  pul- 
pit and  loved  him  all  the  same !  *  And  don't 
make  any  secret  of  it !'  he  said  to  me.  *  Bring 
him  in  openly — let  all  the  world  see.  Non  eru- 
besco  evayigeliuin  .^'  " 

The  young  man  stopped — reddened  and  a  little 
abashed  by  his  own  eloquence. 

But  Madame  Variani  murmured — still  with  the 
same  aspect  of  a  shrewd  and  sleepy  cat  basking 
in  the  sun — 

"It  is  the  same  with  all  you  Anglo-Saxons. 
The  north  will  never  understand  the  south — • 
never  !  You  can't  understand  our  a  pen  pres. 
You  think  Catholicism  is  a  tyranny — and  we  must 
either  let  the  priests  oppress  us,  or  throw  every- 
thing overboard.  But  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind. 
We  take  what  we  want  of  it,  and  leave  the  rest. 
But  you  ! — if  you  come  over  to  us,  that  is  an» 
other  matter  !  You  have  to  swallow  it  all.  You 
must  begin  even  with  Adam  and  Eve  !" 

"  Ah !  but  what  I  can't  understand,"  said  Fio 
.    333 


ravanti,  "  is  how  Mrs.  Burgoyne  allowed  it.  She 
ought  to  have  given  the  book  another  direction 
— and  she  could.  She  is  an  extremely  clever 
woman !  She  knows  that  caricature  is  not  argu- 
ment." 

"  But  what  has  happened  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?" 
said  the  Marchesa  to  Lucy,  throwing  up  her 
hands.  "  Such  a  change  !    I  was  so  distressed " 

"  You  think  she  looks  ill  ?"  said  Lucy  quickly. 

Her  troubled  eyes  sought  those  kind  ones  look- 
ing down  upon  her  almost  in  appeal.  Instinc- 
tively the  younger  woman,  far  from  home  and 
conscious  of  a  hidden  agony  of  feeling,  threw 
herself  upon  the  exquisite  maternity  that  breathed 
from  the  elder.  "  Oh  !  if  I  could  tell  you  ! — if 
you  could  advise  me  !"  was  the  girl's  unspoken 
cry. 

"  She  looks  terribly  ill — to  me,"  said  the  Mar- 
chesa, gravely.  "And  the  winter  had  done  her 
8o  much  good.  We  all  loved  her  here.  It  is  de- 
plorable. Perhaps  the  hill  climate  has  been  too 
cold  for  her,  mademoiselle  ?" 

Lucy  walked  hurriedly  back  to  the  lawn  to  re- 
join her  companions.  The  flood  of  misery  within 
made  movement  the  only  relief.  Some  instinct  of 
her  own  came  to  the  aid  of  the  Marchesa's  words, 
helped  them  to  sting  all  the  more  deeply.  She 
felt  herself  a  kind  of  murderer. 

Suddenly  as  she  issued  blindly  from  the  tangle 
of  the  rose-garden  she  came  upon  Eleanor  Bur- 
goyne talking  gayly,  surrounded  by  a  little  knot 
334 


of  people,  mostly  older  men,  who  had  found  her 
to-day,  as  always,  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
distinguished  of  companions. 

Lucy  approached  her  impetuously. 

Oh  1  how  white  and  stricken  an  aspect — 
through  what  a  dark  eclipse  of  pain  the  eyes 
looked  out ! 

"  Ought  we  not  to  be  going  T  Lucy  whispered 
in  her  ear.     "  I  am  sure  you  are  tired.* 

Eleanor  rose.  She  took  the  girl's  hand  in  a 
clinging  grasp,  while  she  turned  smiling  to  her 
neighbor  the  Dane : 

"  We  must  be  moving  to  the  Villa  Borghese — 
some  friends  will  be  meeting  us  there.  Our  train 
does  not  go  for  a  long,  long  while." 

"  Does  any  Roman  train  ever  go  ?"  said  Doc- 
tor Jensen,  stroking  his  straw  -  colored  beard. 
"But  why  leave  us,  madame?  Is  not  one  gar- 
den as  good  as  another  ?  What  spell  can  we  in- 
vent to  chain  you  here  ?'* 

He  bowed  low,  smiling  fatuously,  with  his 
hand  on  his  heart.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
learned  men  in  the  world.  But  about  that  he 
cared  nothing.  The  one  reputation  he  desired 
was  that  of  a  "  sad  dog  " — a  terrible  man  with  the 
ladies.     That  was  the  paradox  of  his  existence. 

Eleanor  laughed  mechanically ;  then  she  turned 
to  Lucy. 

"  Come !"  she  said  in  the  girl's  ear,  and  as  they 
walked  away  she  half  closed  her  eyes  against  the 
sun,  and  Lucy  thought  she  heard  a  gasp  of  fa- 
tigue.    But  she  spoke  lightly. 
335 


"  Dear,  foolish,  old  man  !  he  was  telling  me 
how  he  had  gone  back  to  the  Hermitage  Library 
at  St.  Petersburg  the  other  day  to  read,  after 
thirty  years.  And  there  in  a  book  that  had  not 
been  taken  down  since  he  had  used  it  last  he 
found  a  leaf  of  paper  and  some  pencil  words 
scribbled  on  it  by  him  when  he  was  a  youth — 
*my  own  darling.'  *  And  if  I  only  knew  now 
vich  darling!'  he  said,  looking  at  me  and  slap- 
ping his  knee.  '  Vich  darling'!"  Eleanor  repeat- 
ed laughing  extravagantly.  Then  suddenly  she 
wavered.  Lucy  instinctively  caught  her  by  the 
arm,  and  Eleanor  leaned  heavily  upon  her. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Burgoyne — you  are  not  well,"  cried 
the  girl,  terrified.  '  Let  us  go  to  a  hotel  where 
you  can  rest  till  the  train  goes  —  or  to  some 
friend." 

Eleanor's  face  set  in  the  effort  to  control  her- 
self— she  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  "  No, 
no,  I  am  well,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "  It  is  the 
sun — and  I  could  not  eat  at  luncheon.  The  am- 
bassador's new  cook  did  not  tempt  me.  And  be- 
sides " —  she  suddenly  threw  a  look  at  Lucy  be- 
fore which  Lilcy  shrank — "  I  am  out  of  love  with 
myself.  There  is  one  hour  yesterday  which  I 
wish  to  cancel — to  take  back.  I  give  up  every- 
thing— everything." 

They  were  advancing  across  a  wide  lawn.  The 
ambassador  and  Mrs.  Swetenham  were  coming  to 
meet  them.  The  ambassador,  weary  of  his  com- 
panion, was  looking  with  pleasure  at  the  two 
approaching  figures,  at  the  sweep  of  Eleanor's 
336 


white  dress  upon  the  grass,  and  the  frame  made 
by  her  black  lace  parasol  for  the  delicacy  of  her 
head  and  neck. 

Meanwhile  Eleanor  and  Lucy  saw  only  each 
other.  The  girl  colored  proudly.  She  drew  her- 
self erect. 

"You  cannot  give  up  —  what  would  not  be 
taken  —  what  is  not  desired,"  she  said  fiercely. 
Then,  iu  another  voice  :  "  But  please,  please  let 
me  take  care  of  you  !  Don't  let  us  go  to  the 
Villa  Borghese  !" 

She  felt  her  hand  pressed  passionately,  then 
dropped. 

"  I  am  all  right,"  said  Eleanor,  almost  in  her 
usual  voice.  "  Eccellenza !  we  must  bid  you 
good-bye — have  you  seen  our  gentleman  ?' 

''''  Ecco^'  said  the  ambassador,  pointing  to  Man- 
isty,  who,  in  company  with  the  American  mon- 
signore,  was  now  approaching  them.  "  Let  him 
take  you  out  of  the  sun  at  once — you  look  as 
though  it  were  too  much  for  you." 

Manisty,  however,  came  up  slowly,  in  talk  with 
his  companion.  The  frowning  impatience  of  his 
aspect  attracted  the  attention  of  the  group  round 
the  ambassador.  As  he  reached  them,  he  said  to 
the  priest  beside  him — 

"  You  know  that  he  has  withdrawn  his  recan- 
tation ?" 

"  Ah  !  yes  " — said  the  monsignore,  raising  his 
eyebrows,  "poor  fellow  !" — 

The  mingled  indifference  and  compassion  of 
the  tone  made  the  words  bite.  Manisty  flushed. 
337 


*'I  hear  he  was  promised  consideration,"  he 
said  quickly. 

"  Then  he  got  it,"  was  the  priest's  smiling  re- 
ply. 

"  He  was  told  that  his  letter  was  not  for  publi- 
cation. Next  morning  it  appeared  in  the  *Os- 
servatore  Romano.' " 

"  Oh  no ! — impossible  !  Your  facts  are  incor- 
rect." 

The  monsignore  laughed,  in  unperturbed  good- 
humor.  But  after  the  laugh,  the  face  reappeared, 
hard  and  a  little  menacing,  like  a  rock  that  has 
been  masked  by  a  wave.  He  watched  Manisty 
for  a  moment  silently. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  said  Manisty  abruptly. 

"  Are  you  talking  of  Father  Benecke  ?"  said 
the  ambassador.  "  I  heard  of  him  yesterday. 
He  has  gone  into  the  country,  but  he  gave  me 
no  address.     He  wished  to  be  undisturbed." 

"  A  wise  resolve  " — said  the  monsignore,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand.  "  Your  Excellency  must  ex- 
cuse me.  I  have  an  audience  of  his  Holiness 
at  three  o'clock." 

He  made  his  farewell  to  the  ladies  with  Irish 
effusion,  and  departed.  The  ambassador  looked 
curiously  at  Manisty.  Then  he  fell  back  with 
Lucy. 

"  It  will  be  a  column  to-night,"  he  said  with 
depression.  "  Why  didn't  you  stand  by  me  ?  I 
showed  Mrs.  Swetenham  my  pictures — my  beau- 
ties— my  ewe  lambs — that  I  have  been  gathering 
for  twenty  years — that  the  National  Gallery  shs^U 
33§ 


have,  when  I'm  gone,  if  it  behaves  itself.  And 
she  asked  me  if  they  were  originals,  and  took  my 
Luini  for  a  Raphael  !  Yes!  it  will  be  a  column," 
said  the  ambassador  pensively.  Then,  with  a 
brisk  change,  he  looked  up  and  took  the  hand 
that  Lucy  offered  him. 

"  Good-bye — good-bye  !  You  won't  forget  my 
prescription  ? — nor  me  ?"  said  the  old  man,  smil- 
ing and  patting  her  hand  kindly.  "  And  remem- 
ber !" — he  bent  towards  her,  dropping  his  voice 
with  an  air  in  which  authority  and  sweetness 
mingled — "  send  Mr.  Manisty  home  !" 

He  felt  the  sudden  start  in  the  girl's  hand  be- 
fore he  dropped  it.  Then  he  turned  to  Manisty 
himself. 

"  Ah  !  Manisty,  here  you  are.  Your  ladies 
want  to  leave  us." 

Manisty  made  his  farewells,  and  carried  Lucy 
off.  But  as  they  walked  towards  the  house  he 
said  not  a  word,  and  Lucy,  venturing  a  look  at 
him,  saw  the  storm  on  his  brow,  the  stiffness  of 
the  lips. 

"  We  are  going  to  the  Villa  Borghese,  are  we 
not  ?"  she  said  timidly — "  if  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ought 
to  go  ?" 

"  We  must  go  somewhere,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
stalking  on  before  her.  "  We  can't  sit  in  the 
street." 


CHAPTER     XIV 

THE  party  returning  to  Marinata  had  two 
hours  to  spend  in  the  gallery  and  garden 
of  the  Villa  Borghese.  Of  the  pictures 
and  statues  of  the  palace,  of  the  green  undula- 
tions, the  stone  pines,  the  tempietti  of  the  garden, 
Lucy  afterwards  had  no  recollection.  All  that 
she  remembered  was  flight  on  her  part,  pursuit 
on  Manisty's,  and  finally  a  man  triumphant  and 
a  girl  brought  to  bay. 

It  was  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  vast  garden, 
where  hedges  of  some  fragrant  yellow  shrub  shut 
in  the  basin  of  a  fountain,  surrounded  by  a  ring 
of  languid  nymphs,  that  Lucy  at  last  found  her- 
self face  to  face  with  Manisty,  and  knew  that  she 
must  submit. 

"  I  do  not  understand  how  I  have  missed  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,"  she  said  hastily,  looking  round  for 
her  companion  Mrs.  Elliot,  who  had  just  left  her 
to  overtake  her  brother  and  go  home  ;  while  Lucy 
was  to  meet  Eleanor  and  Mr.  Neal  at  this  ren- 
dezvous. 

Manisty  looked  at  her  with  his  most  sparkling, 
most  determined  air. 

340 


"You  have  missed  her — because  I  have  misled 
her."  Then,  as  Lucy  drew  back,  he  hurried  on, 
— "  I  cannot  understand,  Miss  Foster,  why  it  is 
that  you  have  constantly  refused  all  yesterday 
evening — all  to-day — to  give  me  the  opportunity 
I  desired  !  But  I,  too,  have  a  will, — and  it  has 
been  roused  !" 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Lucy,  growing  white. 

"  Let  me  explain,  then,"  said  Manisty,  coolly. 
"  Miss  Foster,  two  nights  ago  you  were  attacked, 
— in  danger  —  under  my  roof,  in  my  care.  As 
your  host,  you  owe  it  to  me,  to  let  me  account 
and  apologize  for  such  things — if  I  can.  But  you 
avoid  me.  You  give  me  no  chance  of  telling  you 
what  I  had  done  to  protect  you  —  of  expressing 
my  infinite  sorrow  and  regret.  I  can  only  im- 
agine that  you  resent  our  negligence  too  deeply 
even  to  speak  of  it — that  you  cannot  forgive  us  !" 

"  Forgive !"  cried  Lucy,  fairly  taken  aback. 
"  What  could  I  have  to  forgive,  Mr.  Manisty  ? — 
what  can  you  mean  ?" 

"  Explain  to  me  then,"  said  he,  unflinching, 
"  why  you  have  never  had  a  kind  word  for  me, 
or  a  kind  look,  since  this  happened.  Please  sit 
down,  Miss  Foster"  —  he  pointed  to  a  marble 
bench  close  beside  her — "  I  will  stand  here.  The 
others  are  far  away.  Ten  minutes  you  owe  me 
— ten  minutes  I  claim." 

Lucy  sat  down,  struggling  to  maintain  her  dig- 
nity and  presence  of  mind. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  given  you  very  wrong  ideas 
of  me,"  she  said,  throwing  him  a  timid  smile.  "  I 
341 


of  course  have  nothing  to  forgive  anybody— far, 
far  the  contrary.  I  know  that  you  took  all  pos- 
sible pains  that  no  harm  should  happen  to  me. 
And  through  you — no  harm  did  happen  to  me." 

She  turned  away  her  head,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty. To  both  that  moment  of  frenzied  strug- 
gle at  the  dining-room  door  was  almost  too  hor- 
rible for  remembrance.  And  through  both  minds 
there  swept  once  more  the  thrill  of  her  call  to 
him — of  his  rush  to  her  aid. 

"  You  knew  " — he  said  eagerly,  coming  closer. 

"  I  knew — I  was  in  danger — that  but  for  you — 
perhaps — your  poor  sister " 

"  Oh  !  don't  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  shuddering. 

And  leaning  over  the  edge  of  one  of  the  nymphs' 
pedestals,  beside  her,  he  stared  silently  into  the 
cool  green  water. 

"  There,"  said  Lucy  tremulously,  "  you  don't 
want  to  speak  of  it.  And  that  was  my  feeling. 
Why  should  we  speak  of  it  any  more  ?  It  must 
be  such  a  horrible  grief  to  you.  And  I  can't 
do  anything  to  help  you  and  Miss  Manisty.  It 
would  be  so  different  if  I  could." 

"  You  can, — you  must — let  me  tell  you  what  I 
had  done  for  your  safety  that  n;ght,"  he  said 
firmly,  interrupting  her.  "  I  had  made  such  ar- 
rangements with  Dalgetty — who  is  a  strong 
woman  physically — I  had  so  imprisoned  my  poor 
sister,  that  I  could  not  imagine  any  harm  coming 
to  you  or  any  other  of  our  party.  When  my  aunt 
said  to  me  that  night  before  she  went  to  bed  that 
she  was  afraid  your  door  was  unsafe,  I  laughed — 
342 


*  That  doesn't  matter  !'  I  said  to  her.  I  felt  quite 
confident.  I  sat  up  all  night,  —  but  I  was  not 
anxious,  —  and  I  suppose  it  was  that  which  at 
last  betrayed  me  into  sleep.  Of  course,  the  fatal 
thing  was  that  we  none  of  us  knew  of  the  chloro- 
form she  had  hidden  away." 

Lucy  fidgeted  in  distress. 

"Please — please — don't  talk  as  though  any  one 
were  to  blame — as  though  there  were  anything 
to  make  excuses  for " 

"  How  should  there  not  be  ?  You  were  dis- 
turbed— attacked — frightened.     You  might " 

He  drew  in  his  breath.     Then  he  bent  over  her 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "did  she  at- 
tack you  in  your  room  ?" 

Lucy  hesitated.  "Why  will  you  talk  about  it?" 
she  said  despairingly. 

"I  have  a  right  to  know." 

His  urgent  imperious  look  left  her  no  choice. 
She  felt  his  will,  and  yielded.  In  very  simple 
words,  faltering  yet  restrained,  she  told  the  whole 
story.  Manisty  followed  every  word  with  breath- 
less attention. 

"  My  God  !"  he  said,  when  she  paused,  "  my 
God  !" 

And  he  hid  his  eyes  with  his  hand  a  moment. 
Then— 

"  You  knew  she  had  a  weapon  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  supposed  so,"  she  said  quietly.  "  All  the 
time  she  was  in  my  room,  she  kept  her  poor  hand 
closed  on  something." 

"  Her  poor  hand  !" — the  little  phrase  seemed 
343 


to  Manisty  extraordinarily  touching.  There  was 
a  moment's  pause — then  he  broke  out : 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  has  been  a  fine  ending 
to  the  whole  business.  Miss  Foster,  when  you 
came  out  to  stay  with  us,  you  imagined,  I  sup- 
pose, that  you  were  coming  to  stay  with  friends? 
You  didn't  know  much  of  us  ;  but  after  the  kind- 
ness my  aunt  and  I  had  experienced  from  your 
friends  and  kinsfolk  in  Boston — to  put  it  in  the 
crudest  way — you  might  have  expected  at  least 
that  we  should  welcome  you  warmly — do  all  we 
could  for  you — take  you  everywhere — show  you 
everything  ?" 

Lucy  colored — then  laughed. 

"  I  don't  know  in  the  least  what  you  mean,  Mr. 
Manisty  !  I  knew  you  would  be  kind  to  me ;  and 
of  course — of  course— you  have  been  !" 

She  looked  in  distress  first  at  the  little  path 
leading  from  the  fountain,  by  which  he  barred 
her  exit,  and  then  at  him.  She  seemed  to  im- 
plore, either  that  he  would  let  her  go,  or  that  he 
would  talk  of  something  else. 

"  Not  I,"  he  said  with  decision.  "  I  admit  that 
since  Alice  appeared  on  the  scene  you  have  been 
my  chief  anxiety.  But  before  that,  I  treated  you, 
Miss  Foster,  with  a  discourtesy,  a  forgetfulness, 
that  you  can't,  that  you  oughtn't  to  forget ;  I 
made  no  plans  for  your  amusement ;  I  gave  you 
none  of  my  time.  On  your  first  visit  to  Rome,  I 
let  you  mope  away  day  after  day  in  that  stifling 
garden,  without  taking  a  single  thought  for  you. 
I  even  grudged  it  when  Mrs.  Burgoyne  looked 
344 


after  you.  To  be  quite,  quite  frank,  I  grudged 
your  coming  to  us  at  all.  Yet  I  was  your  host — 
you  were  in  my  care— I  had  invited  you.  If  there 
ever  was  an  ungentlemanly  boor,  it  was  I.  There ! 
Miss  Foster,  there  is  my  confession.  Can  you  for- 
give it  ?     Will  you  give  me  another  chance  ?" 

He  stood  over  her,  his  broad  chest  heaving 
with  an  agitation  that,  do  what  she  would,  com- 
municated itself  to  her.  She  could  not  help  it. 
She  put  out  her  hand,  with  a  sweet  look,  half 
smiling,  half  appealing — and  he  took  it.  Then, 
as  she  hurriedly  withdrew  it,  she  repeated  : 

"  There  is  nothing — nothing — to  forgive.  You 
have  all  been  good  to  me.  And  as  for  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  and  Aunt  Pattie,  they  have  been  just 
angels  !" 

Manisty  laughed. 

"  I  don't  grudge  them  their  wings.  But  I 
should  like  to  grow  a  pair  of  my  own.  You  have 
a  fortnight  more  with  us  —  isn't  it  so.^"  Lucy 
started  and  looked  down.  "  Well,  in  a  fortnight. 
Miss  Foster,  I  could  yet  redeem  myself  ;  I  could 
make  your  visit  really  worth  while.  It  is  hot, 
but  we  could  get  round  the  heat.  I  have  many 
opportunities  here — friends  who  have  the  keys 
of  things  not  generally  seen.  Trust  yourself  to 
me.  Take  me  for  a  guide,  a  professor,  a  courier  1 
At  last  I  will  give  you  a  good  time  !" 

{Je  smiled  upon  her  eagerly,  impetuously.  It 
was  like  him,  this  plan  for  mending  all  past  er- 
rors in  a  moment,  for  a  summary  and  energetic 
repentance.  She  could  hardly  help  laughing ; 
345 


yet  far  within  her  heart  made  a  leap  towards 
him — beaten  back  at  once  by  its  own  sad  knowl- 
edge. 

She  turned  away  from  him  —  away  from  his 
handsome  face,  and  that  touch  in  him  of  the 
"imperishable  child,"  which  moved  and  pleased 
her  so.  Playing  with  some  flowers  on  her  lap, 
she  said  shyly — 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  do  with 
this  fortnight  ?" 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Manisty,  stooping  towards 
her.  It  was  well  for  her  that  she  could  not 
see  his  expression,  as  he  took  in  with  covetous 
delight  her  maidenly  simpleness  and  sweetness. 

"Oughtn't  you  —  to  finish  the  book?  Yoii 
could — couldn't  you?  And  Mrs.  Burgoyne  has 
been  so  disappointed.  It  makes  one  sad  to  see 
her." 

Her  words  gave  her  courage.  She  looked  at 
him  again  with  a  grave,  friendly  air. 

Manisty  drew  himself  suddenly  erect.  After  a 
pause,  he  said  in  another  voice  :  "  I  thought  I 
had  explained  to  you  before  that  the  book  and 
I  had  reached  a  cul  de  sac  —  that  I  no  longer 
saw  my  way  with  it." 

Lucy  thought  of  the  criticisms  upon  it  she  had 
heard  at  the  Embassy,  and  was  uncomfortably 
silent. 

"  Miss  Foster  !"  said  Manisty  suddenly,  with 
determination. 

Lucy's  heart  stood  still. 

"  I  believe  I  see  the  thought  in  your  mind 
346 


Dismiss  it !  There  have  been  rumors  in  Rome— 
in  which  even  perhaps  my  aunt  has  believed. 
They  are  unjust — both  to  Eleanor  and  to  me. 
She  would  be  the  first  to  tell  you  so." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lucy  hurriedly,  "  of  course," 
— and  then  did  not  know  what  to  say,  torn  as 
she  was  between  her  Puritan  dread  of  falsehood, 
her  natural  woman's  terror  of  betraying  Eleanor, 
and  her  burning  consciousness  of  the  man  and 
the  personality  beside  her. 

"No! — you  still  doubt.  You  have  heard  some 
gossip  and  you  believe  it." 

He  threw  away  the  cigarette  with  which  he 
had  been  playing,  and  came  to  sit  down  on  the 
curving  marble  bench  beside  her. 

"  I  think  you  must  listen  to  me,"  he  said  with 
a  quiet  and  manly  force  that  became  him.  "  The 
friendship  between  my  cousin  and  me  has  been 
unusual,  I  know.  It  has  been  of  a  kind  that 
French  people,  rather  than  English,  understand  ; 
because  for  French  people  literature  and  conver- 
sation are  serious  matters,  not  trifles  that  don't 
count,  as  they  are  with  us.  She  has  been  all 
sweetness  and  kindness  to  me,  and  I  suppose 
that  she,  like  a  good  many  other  people,  has 
found  me  an  unsatisfactory  and  disappointing 
person  to  work  with  !" 

"  She  is  so  ill  and  tired,"  said  Lucy,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Is  she  ?"  said  Manisty,  concerned.  "  But  she 
never  can  stand  heat.  She  will  pick  up  when  she 
gets  to  England. — But  now  suppose  we  grant  all 
347 


my  enormities.  Then  please  tell  me  what  I  am 
to  do  ?  How  am  I  to  appease  Eleanor  ? — anc^ 
either  transform  the  book,  to  satisfy  Neal, — or 
else  bury  it  decently  ?  Beastly  thing  ! — as  if  it 
were  worth  one  tithe  of  the  trouble  it  has  cost 
her  and  me.  Yet  there  are  some  uncornmon 
good  things  in  it  too  !"  he  said,  with  a  change  of 
tone. 

"  Well,  if  you  did  bury  it,"  said  Lucy,  half 
laughing,  yet  trying  to  pluck  up  courage  to  obey 
the  ambassador,  —  "  what  would  you  do  ?  Go 
back  to  England? — and — and  to  your  property?'' 

"  What !  has  that  dear  old  man  been  talking 
to  you?"  he  said  with  amusement-  "I  thought 
as  much.  He  has  snubbed  my  views  and  me  two 
or  three  times  lately.  I  don't  mind.  He  is  one 
of  the  privileged.  So  the  ambassador  thinks  I 
should  go  home?" 

He  threw  one  arm  over  the  back  of  the  seat, 
and  threw  her  a  brilliant  hectoring  look  which 
led  her  on. 

"  Don't  people  in  England  think  so  too  ?" 

"Yes  —  some  of  them,"  he  said  considering. 
"I  have  been  bombarded  with  letters  lately  as 
to  politics,  and  the  situation,  and  a  possible  new 
constituency.  A  candid  friend  says  to  me  this 
morning,  *  Hang  the  Italians  !  —  what  do  you 
know  about  them,  —  and  what  do  they  matter? 
English  people  can  only  be  frightened  by  their 
own  bogies.  Come  home,  for  God's  sake  !  There's 
a  glorious  fight  coming,  and  if  you're  not  i^  \\,, 
yqu'll  be  a  precipw?  fool.'  " 
348 


"I  daren't  be  as  candid  as  that  !"  said  Lucy, 
her  face  quivering  with  suppressed  fun. 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  common  flash  of  laugh- 
ter. Then  Manisty  fell  heavily  back  against  the 
seat. 

"  What  have  I  got  to  go  home  for  ?"  he  said 
abruptly,  his  countenance  darkening. 

Lucy's  aspect  changed  too,  instantly.  She 
waited. 

Manisty's  lower  jaw  dropped  a  little.  A  som- 
bre bitterness  veiled  the  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
distant  vistas  of  the  garden. 

"  I  hate  my  old  house,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Its 
memories  are  intolerable.  My  father  was  a  very 
eminent  person,  and  had  many  friends.  His 
children  saw  nothing  of  him,  and  had  not  much 
reason  to  love  him.  My  mother  died  there — 
of  an  illness  it  is  appalling  to  think  of.  No,  no 
— not  Alice's  illness  !— not  that.  And  now,  Alice, 
— I  should  see  her  ghost  at  every  corner!" 

Lucy  watched  him  with  fascination.  Every 
note  of  the  singular  voice,  every  movement  of 
the  picturesque  ungainly  form,  already  spoke  to 
her,  poor  child,  with  a  significance  that  bit  these 
passing  moments  into  memory,  as  an  etcher's 
acid  bites  upon  his  plate. 

"Oh  !  she  will  recover  !"  she  said,  softly,  lean- 
ing towards  him  unconsciously. 

"  No  ! — she  will  never  recover, — nevei* !  And 
if  she  did,  she  and  I  have  long  ceased  to  be  com- 
panions and  friends.  No,  Miss  Foster,  there  is 
nothing  to  call  me  home, — except  politics.  I  may 
349 


set  up  a  lodging  in  London,  of  course.     But  as 

for  playing  the  country  squire "  He  laughed, 

and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  No, — I  shall  let 
the  place  as  soon  as  I  can.  Anyway,  I  shall  never 
return  to  it — alone  !" 

He  turned  upon  her  suddenly.  The  tone  in 
which  the  last  word  was  spoken,  the  steady 
ardent  look  with  which  it  was  accompanied, 
thrilled  the  hot  May  air. 

A  sickening  sense  of  peril,  of  swift  intoler- 
able remorse,  rushed  upon  Lucy.  It  gave  her 
strength. 

She  changed  her  position,  and  spoke  with  per- 
fect self-possession,  gathering  up  her  parasol  and 
gloves. 

"We  really  must  find  the  others,  Mr.  Man- 
isty.  They  will  wonder  what  has  become  of 
us." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke.  Manisty  drew  a  long 
breath  as  he  still  sat  observing  her.  Her  light, 
cool  dignity  showed  him  that  he  was  either  not 
understood — or  too  well  understood.  In  either 
case  he  was  checked.  He  took  back  his  move  ; 
not  without  a  secret  pleasure  tha'-  she  was  not 
too  yielding — too  much  of  the  ingenue  / 

"  We  shall  soon  discover  them,'*  he  said  care- 
lessly, relighting  his  cigarette.  "  By-the-way,  I 
saw  what  company  you  were  in  after  lunch  ! 
You  didn't  hear  any  good  of  the  book  or  me — 
there !" 

"  I  liked  them  all,"  she  said  with  spirit.  **  They 
love  their  country,  and  they  believe  in  her. 
350 


Where,  Mr.  Manisty,  did  you  leave  Mr.  Neal  and 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?" 

"  I  will  show  you,"  he  said,  unwillingly.  *'  They 
are  in  a  part  of  the  garden  you  don't  know." 

Her  eye  was  bright,  —  a  little  hostile.  She 
moved  resolutely  forward,  and  Manisty  followed 
her.  Both  were  conscious  of  a  hidden  amaze- 
ment. But  a  minute,  since  he  had  spoken  that 
word,  looked  that  look?  How  strange  a  thing 
is  human  life  !  He  would  not  let  himself  think, 
— talked  of  he  hardly  knew  what. 

"  They  love  their  country,  you  say  ?  Well,  I 
grant  you  that  particular  group  has  pure  hands, 
and  isn't  plundering  their  country's  vitals  like 
the  rest — as  far  as  I  know.  A  set  of  amiable 
dreamers,  however,  they  appear  to  me  ;  fiddling 
at  small  reforms,  while  the  foundations  are  sink- 
ing from  under  them.  However,  you  liked  them, 
— that's  enough.  Now  then,  when  and  how  shall 
we  begin  our  campaign  ?  Where  will  you  go  ? — 
what  will  you  see  ?  The  crypt  of  St.  Peter's  ? — 
that  wants  a  cardinal's  order.  The  Villa  Al- 
bani? — closed  to  the  public  since  the  govern- 
ment laid  hands  on  the  Borghese  pictures, — but 
it  shall  open  to  you.  The  great  function  at 
the  Austrian  Embassy  next  week  with  all  the 
cardinals  ?  Give  me  your  orders, — it  will  be  hard 
if  I  can't  compass  them  !" 

But  she  was  silent,  and  he  saw  that  she  still 

hurried,  that  her  look  sought  the  distance,  that 

her  cheek  was  flushed.     Why  ?    What  new  thing 

nad  he  said  to  press — to  disturb  her  ?    A  spark 

351 


of  emotion  passed  through  him.  He  approached 
her  gently,  persuasively,  as  one  might  approach 
a  sweet,  resisting  child — 

"  You'll  come  ?    You'll  let  me  make  amends?** 

'*  I  thought,"  said  Lucy,  uncertainly,  '*  that  you 
were  going  home  directly — at  the  beginning  of 
June.  Oh  !  please,  Mr.  Manisty,  will  you  look  ? 
Is  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?'* 

Manisty  frowned. 

"They  are  not  in  that  directioh. — As  to  my 
going  home,  Miss  Foster,  I  have  no  engagements 
that  I  cannot  break." 

The  wounded  feeling  in  the  voice  was  unmis- 
takable.    It  hurt  her  ear. 

"  I  should  love  to  see  all  those  things,"  she 
said  vaguely,  still  trying,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  to 
outstrip  him,  to  search  the  figures  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  "  but — but — plans  are  so  difficult.  Oh  ! 
that  is— that  is  Mr.  Neal !" 

She  began  to  run  towards  the  approaching 
figure,  and  presently  Manisty  could  hear  her 
asking  breathlessly  for  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

Manisty  stood  still.  Then  as  they  approached 
hiin,  he  said — 

"  Neal ! — well  met  !  Will  you  take  these  ladies 
to  the  station,  or,  at  any  rate,  put  them  in  their 
cab?  It  is  time  for  their  train  I  dine  in 
Rome." 

He  raised  his  hat  formally  to  Lucy,  turrled, 
and  went  his  way. 

It  was  night  at  the  villa. 
552 


Eleanor  was  in  her  room,  the  western  room 
overlooking  the  olive-ground  and  the  Campagna, 
which  Lucy  had  occupied  for  a  short  time  on  her 
first  arrival. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  since  Eleanor  had 
heard  Manisty's  cab  arrive,  and  his  voice  in  the 
library  giving  his  orders  to  Alfredo.  She  and 
Lucy  Foster  and  Aunt  Pattie  had  already  dis- 
persed to  their  rooms.  It  was  strange  that  he 
should  have  dined  in  town.  It  had  been  ex- 
pressly arranged  on  their  way  to  Rome  that  he 
should  bring  them  back. 

Eleanor  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair  beside  a 
table  that  carried  a  paraffin  lamp.  At  her  back 
was  the  window,  which  was  open  save  for  the 
sun  -  shutter  outside,  and  the  curtains,  both  of 
which  had  been  drawn  close.  A  manuscript 
diary  lay  on  Eleanor's  lap,  and  she  was  listlessly 
turning  it  over,  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing,  and 
hands  that  hardly  knew  what  they  touched.  Her 
head,  with  its  aureole  of  loosened  hair,  was 
thrown  back  against  the  chair,  and  the  crude 
lamplight  revealed  each  sharpened  feature  with  a 
merciless  plainness.  She  was  a  woman  no  longer 
young — ill — and  alone. 

By  the  help  of  the  entries  before  her  she  had 
been  living  the  winter  over  again. 

How  near  and  vivid  it  was, — how  incredibly, 
tangibly  near  ! — and  yet  as  dead  as  the  Csesars 
on  the  Palatine. 

For  instance  : — 

"  November  22.  To-day  we  worked  well.  Three 
353 


hours  this  morning — nearly  three  this  afternoon. 
The  survey  of  the  financial  history  since  1870  is 
nearly  finished.  I  could  not  have  held  out  so 
long,  but  for  his  eagerness,  for  my  head  ached, 
and  last  night  it  seemed  to  me  that  Rome  was 
all  bells,  and  that  the  clocks  never  ceased  strik 
ing. 

"  But  how  his  eagerness  carries  one  through, 
and  his  frank  and  generous  recognition  of  all 
that  one  does  for  him !  Sometimes  I  copy  and 
arrange  ;  sometimes  he  dictates  ;  sometimes  I 
just  let  him  talk  till  he  has  got  a  page  or  section 
into  shape.  Even  in  this  handling  of  finance, 
you  feel  the  flame  that  makes  life  with  him  so 
exciting.  It  is  absurd  to  say,  as  his  enemies  do, 
that  he  has  no  steadiness  of  purpose.  I  have 
seen  him  go  through  the  most  tremendous  drudg- 
ery the  last  few  weeks, — and  then  throw  it  all 
into  shape  with  the  most  astonishing  ease  and 
rapidity.  And  he  is  delightful  to  work  with. 
He  weighs  all  I  say.  But  no  false  politeness ! 
If  he  doesn't  like  it>  he  frowns  and  bites  his  lip, 
and  tears  me  to  pieces.  But  very  often  I  pre- 
vail, and  no  one  can  yield  with  a  better  grace. 
People  here  talk  of  his  vanity.  I  don't  deny  it — 
perhaps  I  think  it  part  of  his  charm. 

"  He  thinks  too  much  of  me,  far,  far  too  much. 

"  December  16.  A  luncheon  at  the  Marchesa's. 
The  Fioravantis  were  there,  and  some  Liberal 
Catholics.  Manisty  was  attacked  on  all  sides. 
At  first  he  was  silent  and  rather  sulky — it  is 
not  always  easy  to  draw  him.  Then  he  fired  up, 
354 


— and  it  was  wonderful  how  he  met  them  all  in 
an  Italian  almost  as  quick  as  their  own.  I  think 
they  were  amazed  :  certainly  I  was. 

"Of  course  I  sometimes  wish  that  it  were 
conviction  with  him  and  not  policy.  My  heart 
aches,  hungers  sometimes — for  another  note.  If 
instead  of  this  praise  from  outside,  this  cool 
praise  of  religion  as  the  great  policeman  of  the 
world,  if  only  his  voice,  his  dear  voice,  spoke  for 
one  moment  the  language  of  faith  ! — all  barren 
tension  and  grief  and  doubt  would  be  gone 
then  for  me,  at  a  breath.  But  it  never,  never 
does.  And  I  remind  myself  —  painfully  —  that 
his  argument  holds  whether  the  arguer  believe 
or  no.  '  Somehow  or  other  you  must  get  con- 
duct out  of  the  masses  —  or  society  goes  to 
pieces.  But  you  can  only  do  this  through  re- 
ligion. What  folly,  then,  for  nations  like  Italy 
and  France  to  quarrel  with  the  only  organiza- 
tion which  can  ever  get  conduct  out  of  the 
ignorant ! — in  the  way  they  understand  !' — It  is 
all  so  true.  I  know  it  by  heart — there  is  no  an- 
swering it.  But  if  instead,  he  once  said  to  me 
— '  Eleanor,  there  is  a  God  ! — and  it  is  He  that 
has  brought  us  together  in  this  life  and  work, 
— He  that  will  comfort  you,  and  open  new  ways 
for  me,' — Ah  then — then  ! — 

"Christmas  Day.     We  went  last  night  to  the 

midnight  mass  at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore.    Man- 

isty  is    always  incalculable  at   these  functions  ; 

sometimes  bored  to  death,  sometimes  all  enthu- 

^  355 


f 


siasm  and  sympathy.  Last  night  the  crowd 
jarred  him,  and  I  wished  we  had  not  come.  But 
as  we  walked  home  through  the  moonlit  streets, 
full  of  people  hurrying  in  and  out  of  the  church- 
es, of  the  pifferari  with  their  cloaks  and  pipes — 
black  and  white  nuns  —  brown  monks— lines  of 
scarlet  seminarists,  and  the  like,  he  suddenly 
broke  out  with  the  prayer  of  the  First  Christ- 
mas Mass — I  must  give  it  in  English,  for  I.  have 
forgotten  the  Latin  : 

** '  O  God,  who  didst  cause  this  most  holy  Night 
to  be  illumined  by  the  rising  of  the  true  Light,  we 
beseech  Thee  that  we  who  know  on  earth  the  secret 
shining  of  His  splendor  may  win  in  Heaven  His 
eternal  joys' 

"We  were  passing  through  Monte  Cavallo, 
beside  the  Two  Divine  Horsemen  who  saved 
Rome  of  old.  The  light  shone  on  the  foun- 
tains ;  it  seemed  as  if  the  two  godlike  figures 
were  just  about  to  leap,  in  fierce  young  strength, 
upon  their  horses. 

"  Manisty  stopped  to  look  at  them. 

"  *  And  we  say  that  the  world  lives  by  Science  ! 
Fools!  when  has  it  lived  by  anything  else  than 
Dreams— at  Athens,  at  Rome,  or  Jerusalem  ?' 

"We  stayed  by  the  fountains  talking.  And 
as  we  moved  away,  I  said  :  '  How  strange  at  my 
age  to  be  enjoying  Christmas  for  the  first  time!' 
And  he  looked  dt  me  as  though  I  had  given 
him  pleasure,  and  said  with  his  most  delightful 
smile — *  Who  else  should  enjoy  life  if  not  you — 
kind,  kind  Eleanor  ?' 

356 


"  When  I  got  home,  and  to  my  room,  I  opened 
my  windows  wide.  Our  apartment  is  at  the  end 
of  the  Via  Sistina,  and  has  a  marvellous  view 
over  Rome.  It  was  a  gorgeous  moon  —  St.  Pe- 
ter's, the  hills,  every  dome  and  tower  radiantly 
clear.  And  at  last  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
not  a  rebel  and  an  outlaw  —  that  beauty  and  I 
were  reconciled. 

"  Such  peace  in  the  night !  It  opened  and 
took  me  in.  Oh  !  my  little,  little  son  ! — I  have 
had  such  strange  visions  of  you  all  these  last  days. 
That  horror  of  the  whirling  river — and  the  tiny 
body — tossed  and  torn.  Oh!  my  God!  my  God! 
— has  it  not  filled  all  my  days  and  nights  for 
eight  years  ?  And  now  I  see  him  so  no  more.  I 
see  him  always  carried  in  the  arms  of  dim  ma- 
jestic forms — wrapped  close  and  warm.  Some- 
times the  face  that  bends  over  him  is  that  of 
some  great  Giotto  angel — sometimes,  so  dim  and 
faint !  the  pure  Mother  herself*— sometimes  the 
Hands  that  fold  him  in  are  marred.  Is  it  the  as- 
sociations of  Rome — the  images  with  which  this 
work  with  Edward  fills  my  mind  ?     Perhaps. 

"  But  at  least  I  am  strangely  comforted  ;  some 
kind  hand  seems  to  be  drawing  the  smart  from 
the  deep  deep  wound.  Little  golden-head  !  you 
lie  soft  and  safe,  but  often  you  seem  to  me  to 
turn  your  dear  eyes  —  the  baby-eyes  that  still 
know  all — to  look  out  over  the  bar  of  heaven — 
to  search  for  me — to  bid  me  be  at  peace,  at  last. 

"  February  20.  How  delicious  is  the  first  breath 
of  the  spring  !  The  almond-trees  are  pink  in  the 
357 


Campagna.  The  snow  on  the  Sabine  peaks  is  go- 
ing. The  Piazza  di  Spagna  is  heaped  with  flow- 
ers—  anemones  and  narcissus  and  roses.  And 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  too  feel  the  '  Sehn- 
sucht' — the  longing  of  the  spring  !  At  twenty- 
nine  ! 

"  March  24,  Easter  week.  I  went  to  a  wedding 
at  the  English  church  to  -  day,  Some  barrier 
seems  to  have  fallen  between  me  and  life.  The 
bride— a  dear  girl  who  has  often  been  my  little 
companion  this  winter  —  kissed  me  as  she  was 
going  up  to  take  off  her  dress.  And  I  threw  my 
arms  round  her  with  such  a  rush  of  joy.  Other 
women  have  felt  all  these  things  ten  years  earlier 
perhaps  than  I.  But  they  are  not  less  heavenly 
when  they  come  late  —  into  a  heart  seared  with 
grief. 

"  March  26.  It  is  my  birthday.  From  the 
window  looking  on  the  Piazza,  I  have  just  seen 
Manisty  bargaining  with  the  flower  -  woman. 
Those  lilacs  and  pinks  are  for  me  —  I  know  it ! 
Already  he  has  given  me  the  little  engraved  em- 
erald I  wear  at  my  watch-chain  A  little  genius 
with  a  torch  is  cut  upon  it.  He  said  I  was  to 
take  it  as  the  genius  of  our  friendship 

"  I  changed  the  orders  for  my  dress  to-day.  I 
have  discovered  that  black  is  positively  disagree- 
able to  him.  So  Mathilde  will  have  to  devise 
something  else. 

"April  5.  He  is  away  at  Florence,  and  I  am 
working  at  some  difficult  points  for  him — about 
some  suppressed  monasteries.  I  have  asked  Count 
358 


B ,  who  knows  all  about  such  things,  to  help 

me,  and  am  working  very  hard.  He  comes  back 
in  four  days. 

"  April  9.  He  came  back  to-day.  Such  a  gay 
and  happy  evening.  When  he  saw  what  I  had 
done,  he  took  both  my  hands,  and  kissed  them 
impetuously.  '  Eleanor,  my  queen  of  cousins  !' 
And  now  we  shall  be  at  the  villa  directly.  And 
there  will  be  no  interruption.  There  is  one 
visitor  coming.  But  Aunt  Pattie  will  look  after 
her.  I  think  the  book  should  be  out  in  June.  Of 
course  there  are  some  doubtful  things.  But  it 
must,  it  will  have  a  great  effect. — How  wonder- 
fully well  I  have  been  lately !  The  doctor  last  week 
looked  at  me  in  astonishment.  He  thought  that 
the  Shadow  and  I  were  to  be  soon  acquainted, 
when  he  saw  me  first ! 

"  I  hope  that  Manisty  will  get  as  much  inspi- 
ration from  the  hills  as  from  Rome.  Every  lit- 
tle change  makes  me  anxious.  Why  should  we 
change  ?  Dear  beloved,  golden  Rome  ! — even  to 
be  going  fourteen  miles  away  from  you  somehow 
tears  my  heart." 

Yes,  there  they  were,  those  entries, — mocking, 
ineffaceable,  forever. 

As  she  had  read  them,  driving  through  all  the 
memories  they  suggested,  like  a  keen  and  bitter 
wind  that  kills  and  blights  the  spring  bloom,  there 
had  pressed  upon  her  the  last  memory  of  all, — 
the  memory  of  this  forlorn,  this  intolerable  day. 
Had  Manisty  ever  yet  forgotten  her  so  complete- 
3S9 


ly — abandoned  her  so  utterly  ?  She  had  simply 
dropped  out  of  his  thoughts.  She  had  become  as 
much  of  a  stranger  to  him  again,  as  on  her  first 
arrival  at  Rome.  Nay,  more  !  For  when  two 
people  are  first  brought  into  a  true  contact,  there 
is  the  secret  delightful  sense  on  either  side  of 
possibilities,  of  the  unexplored.  But  when  the 
possibilities  are  all  known,  and  all  exhausted  ? 

What  had  happened  between  him  and  Lucy 
Foster  ?  Of  course  she  understood  that  he  had 
deliberately  contrived  their  interview.  But  as 
Lucy  and  she  came  home  together  they  had  said 
almost  nothing  to  each  other.  She  had  a  vision 
of  their  two  silent  figures  in  the  railway-carriage 
side  by  side, — her  hand  in  Lucy's.  And  Lucy — 
so  sad  and  white  herself  ! — with  the  furrowed 
brow  that  betrayed  the  inner  stress  of  thought. 

Had  the  crisis  arrived  ? — and  had  she  refused 
him  ?     Eleanor  had  not  dared  to  ask. 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  her  chair.  She  clasped 
her  hands  above  her  head,  and  began  to  walk 
tempestuously  up  and  down  the  bare  floor  of  her 
room.  In  this  creature  so  soft,  so  loving,  so  com- 
pact of  feeling  and  of  tears,  there  had  gradually 
arisen  an  intensity  of  personal  claim,  a  hardness, 
almost  a  ferocity  of  determination,  which  was 
stiffening  and  transforming  the  whole  soul.  She 
could  waver  still  —  as  she  had  wavered  in  that 
despairing,  anguished  moment  with  Lucy  in  the 
Embassy  garden.  But  the  wavering  would  soon 
be  over.  A  jealousy  so  overpowering  that  noth- 
ing could  make  itself  heard  against  it  was  closing 
360 


upon  her  like  a  demoniacal  possession.  Was  it 
the  last  effort  of  self-preservation  ? — the  last  pro- 
test of  the  living  thing  against  its  own  annihila- 
tion ? 

He  was  not  to  be  hers — but  this  treachery,  this 
wrong  should  be  prevented. 

She  thought  of  Lucy  in  Manisty's  arms — of 
that  fresh  young  life  against  his  breast — and  the 
thought  maddened  her.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  terror  of  herself — of  this  fury  in  the  veins, 
so  strange,  so  alien,  so  debasing.  But  it  did  not 
affect  her  will. 

Was  Lucy's  own  heart  touched  ?  Over  that 
question  Eleanor  had  been  racking  herself  for 
days  past.  But  if  so  it  could  be  only  a  passing 
fancy.  It  made  it  only  the  more  a  duty  to  pro- 
tect her  from  Manisty.  Manisty  —  the  soul  of 
caprice  and  wilfulness — could  never  make  a  wom- 
an like  Lucy  happy.  He  would  tire  of  her  and 
neglect  her.  And  what  would  be  left  for  Lucy 
— Lucy  the  upright,  simple,  profound— but  heart- 
break ? 

Eleanor  paused  absently  in  front  of  the  glass, 
and  then  looked  at  herself  with  a  start  of  horror. 
That  face — to  fight  with  Lucy's  ! 

On  the  dressing-table  there  were  still  lying  the 
two  terracotta  heads  from  Nemi,  the  Artemis, 
and  the  Greek  fragment  with  the  clear  brow  and 
nobly  parted  hair,  in  which  Manisty  had  seen  and 
pointed  out  the  likeness  to  Lucy.  Eleanor  re- 
called his  words  in  the  garden— his  smiling,  ab- 
sorbed look  as  the  girl  approached. 
N  361 


Yes! — it  was  like  her.  There  was  the  same 
sweetness  in  strength,  the  same  adorable  round- 
ness and  youth. 

And  that  was  the  beauty  that  Eleanor  had  her- 
self developed  and  made  doubly  visible — as  a  man 
may  free  a  diamond  from  the  clay. 

A  mad  impulse  swept  through  her — that  touch 
of  kinship  with  the  criminal  and  the  murderer 
that  may  reveal  itself  in  the  kindest  and  the 
noblest. 

She  took  up  the  little  mask,  and,  reaching  to 
the  window,  she  tore  back  the  curtains  and 
pushed  open  the  sun-shutters  outside. 

The  night  burst  in  upon  her,  the  starry  night 
hanging  above  the  immensity  of  the  Campagna, 
and  the  sea.  There  was  still  a  faint  glow  in  the 
western  heaven.  On  the  plain  were  a  few  scat- 
tered lights,  fires  lit,  perhaps,  by  wandering  herds- 
men against  malaria.  On  the  far  edge  of  the  land 
to  the  southwest,  a  revolving  light  flashed  its 
message  to  the  Mediterranean  and  the  passing 
ships.  Otherwise,  not  a  sign  of  life.  Below,  a 
vast  abyss  of  shadow  swallowed  up  the  olive-gar- 
den, the  road,  and  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hills. 

Eleanor  felt  herself  leaning  out  above  the  world, 
alone  with  her  agony  and  the  balmy  peace  which 
mocked  it.  She  lifted  her  arm,  and,  stretching 
forward,  she  flung  the  little  face  violently  into 
the  gulf  beneath.  The  villa  rose  high  above  the 
olive -ground,  and  the  olive -ground  itself  sank 
rapidly  towards  the  road.  The  fragment  had 
far  to  fall.  It  seemed  to  Eleanor  that  in  the 
362 


deep  stillness  she  heard  a  sound  like  the  striking 
of  a  stone  among  thick  branches.  Her  mind  fol- 
lowed with  a  wild  triumph  the  breaking  of  the 
terracotta, — the  shivering  of  the  delicate  features 
— their  burial  in  the  stony  earth. 

With  a  long  breath  she  tottered  from  the  win- 
dow and  sank  into  her  chair.  A  horrible  feeling 
of  illness  overtook  her,  and  she  found  herself 
gasping  for  breath.  "  If  I  could  only  reach  that 
medicine  on  my  table !"  she  thought.  But  she 
could  not  reach  it.     She  lay  helpless. 

The  door  opened. 

Was  it  a  dream?  She  seemed  to  struggle 
through  rushing  waters  back  to  land. 

There  was  a  low  cry.  A  light  step  hurried 
across  the  room.  Lucy  Foster  sank  on  her  knees 
beside  her  and  threw  her  arms  about  her. 

"Give  me  —  those  drops — on  the  table,"  said 
Eleanor,  with  difficulty. 

Lucy  said  not  a  word.  Quietly,  with  steady 
hands,  she  brought  and  measured  the  medicine. 
It  was  a  strong  heart  stimulant,  and  it  did  its 
work.  But  while  her  strength  came  back,  Lucy 
saw  that  she  was  shivering  with  cold,  and  closed 
the  window. 

Then,  silently,  Lucy  looked  down  upon  the 
figure  in  the  chair.  She  was  almost  as  white  as 
Eleanor.  Her  eyes  showed  traces  of  tears.  Her 
forehead  was  still  drawn  with  thought  as  it  had 
been  in  the  train. 

Presently  she  sank  again  beside  Eleanor. 

"  I  came  to  see  you,  because  I  could  not  sleep, 
363 


and  I  wanted  to  suggest  a  plan  to  you.  I  had  no 
idea  you  were  ill.  You  should  have  called  me 
before." 

Eleanor  put  out  a  feeble  hand.  Lucy  took  it 
tenderly,  and  laid  it  against  her  cheek.  She 
could  not  understand  why  Eleanor  looked  at  her 
with  this  horror  and  wildness, — how  it  was  that 
she  came  to  be  up,  by  this  open  window,  in  this 
state  of  illness  and  collapse.  But  the  discovery 
only  served  an  antecedent  process — a  struggle 
from  darkness  to  light — which  had  brought  her 
to  Eleanor's  room. 

She  bent  forward  and  said  some  words  in  Elea- 
nor's ear. 

Gradually  Eleanor  understood  and  responded. 
She  raised  herself  piteously  in  her  chair.  The 
two  women  sat  together,  hand  locked  in  hand, 
their  faces  near  to  each  other,  the  murmur  of 
their  voices  flowing  on  brokenly,  for  nearly  an 
hour. 

Once  Lucy  rose  to  get  a  guide-book  that  lay 
on  Eleanor's  table.  And  on  another  occasion, 
she  opened  a  drawer  by  Eleanor's  direction,  took 
out  a  leather  pocket-book  and  counted  some  Ital- 
ian notes  that  it  contained.  Finally  she  insisted 
on  Eleanor's  going  to  bed,  and  on  helping  her  to 
undress. 

Eleanor  had  just  sunk  into  her  pillows,  when 
a  noise  from  the  library  startled  them.  Eleanor 
looked  up  with  strained  eyes. 

"  It  must  be  Mr.  Manisty,"  said  Lucy  hurriedly. 
"  He  was  out  when  I  came  through  the  glass  pas- 
364 


sage.  The  doors  were  all  open,  and  his  lamp  burn- 
ing. I  am  nearly  sure  that  I  heard  him  unbar  the 
front  door.     I  must  wait  now  till  he  is  gone." 

They  waited — Eleanor  staring  into  the  dkrk- 
ness  of  the  room  —  till  there  had  been  much 
opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  and  all  was  quiet 
again. 

Then  the  two  women  clung  to  each  other  in  a 
strange  and  pitiful  embrace — offered  with  pas- 
sion on  Lucy's  side,  accepted  with  a  miserable 
shame  on  Eleanor's — and  Lucy  slipped  away. 

"He  was  out? — in  the  garden?"  said  Eleanor 
to  herself  bewildered.  And  with  those  questions 
on  her  lips,  and  a  mingled  remorse  and  fever 
in  her  blood,  she  lay  sleepless  waiting  for  the 
morning. 

Manisty  indeed  had  also  been  under  the  night, 
bathing  passion  and  doubt  in  its  cool  purity. 

Again  and  again  had  he  wandered  up  and 
down  the  terrace  in  the  starlight,  proving  and 
examining  his  own  heart,  raised  by  the  growth 
of  love  to  a  more  manly  and  more  noble  temper 
than  had  been  his  for  years. 

What  was  in  his  way  ?  His  conduct  towards 
his  cousin  ?  He  divined  what  seemed  to  him  the 
scruple  in  the  girl's  sensitive  and  tender  mind. 
He  could  only  meet  it  by  truth  and  generosity — 
by  throwing  himself  on  Eleanor's  mercy.  She 
knew  what  their  relations  had  been — she  would 
not  refuse  him  this  boon  of  life  and  death — the 
explanation  of  them  to  Lucy. 
365 


Unless  !  There  came  a  moment  when  his  rest- 
less walk  was  tormented  with  the  prickly  rise  of 
a  whole  new  swarm  of  fears.  He  recalled  that 
moment  in  the  library  after  the  struggle  with 
Alice,  when  Lucy  was  just  awakening  from  un- 
consciousness— when  Eleanor  came  in  upon  them. 
Had  she  heard  ?  He  remembered  that  the  possi- 
bility of  it  had  crossed  his  mind. 

Was  she  in  truth  working  against  him — aveng- 
ing his  neglect — establishing  a  fatal  influence 
over  Lucy? 

His  soul  cried  out  in  fierce  and  cruel  protest. 
Here  at  last  was  the  great  passion  of  his  life. 
Come  what  would,  Eleanor  should  not  be  allowed 
to  strangle  it. 

Absently  he  wandered  down  a  little  path  lead- 
ing from  the  terrace  to  the  podere  below,  and  soon 
found  himself  pacing  the  dim  grass  walks  among 
the  olives.  The  old  villa  rose  above  him,  dark 
and  fortress-like.  That  was  no  longer  her  room 
— that  western  corner  ?  No— he  had  good  cause 
to  remember  that  she  had  been  moved  to  the 
eastern  side,  beyond  his  library,  beyond  the 
glass  passage !  Those  were  now  Eleanor's  win- 
dows, he  believed. 

Ah  ! — what  was  that  sudden  light  ?  He  threw 
his  head  back  in  astonishment.  One  of  the  win- 
dows at  which  he  had  been  looking  was  flung 
open,  and  in  the  bright  lamplight  a  figure  ap- 
peared. It  stooped  forward.  Eleanor !  Some- 
thing fell  close  beside  him.  He  heard  the  break- 
ing of  a  branch  from  one  of  the  olives. 
366 


In  his  astonishment,  he  stood  motionless,  watch- 
ing the  window.  It  remained  open  for  a  while. 
Then  again  some  one  appeared  —  not  the  same 
figure  as  at  first.  A  thrill  of  delight  and  trouble 
ran  through  him.  He  sent  his  salutation,  his 
homage  through  the  night. 

But  the  window  shut — the  light  went  out.  All 
was  once  more  still  and  dark. 

Then  he  struck  a  match  and  groped  under  the 
tree  close  by  him.  Yes,  there  was  the  fallen 
branch.  But  what  had  broken  it  ?  He  lit  match 
after  match,  holding  the  light  with  his  left  hand 
while  he  turned  over  the  dry  ground  with  his 
knife.  Presently  he  brought  up  a  handful  of 
stones  and  earth,  and  laid  them  on  a  bit  of 
ruined  wall  close  by.  Stooping  over  them  with 
his  dim,  sputtering  lights,  he  presently  discov- 
ered some  terracotta  fragments.  His  eye,  prac- 
tised in  such  things,  detected  them  at  once. 
They  were  the  fragments  of  a  head,  which  had 
measured  about  three  inches  from  brow  to  chin. 

The  head,  or  rather  the  face,  which  he  had 
given  Eleanor  at  Nemi !  The  parting  of  the 
hair  above  the  brow  was  intact — so  was  the 
beautiful  curve  of  the  cheek. 

He  knew  it  —  and  the  likeness  to  Lucy.  He 
remembered  his  words  to  Eleanor  in  the  garden. 
Holding  the  pieces  in  his  hand,  he  went  slowly 
back  towards  the  terrace. 

Thrown  out?  —  flung  out  into  the  night  —  by 
Eleanor  ?  But  why  ?  He  thought— and  thought. 
A  black  sense  of  entanglement  and  fate  grew 
367 


upon  him  in  the  darkness,  as  he  thought  of  the  two 
women  together,  in  the  midnight  silence,  while 
he  was  pacing  thus,  alone.  He  met  it  with  the 
defiance  of  new-born  passion — with  the  resolute 
planning  of  a  man  who  feels  himself  obscurely 
threatened,  and  realizes  that  his  chief  menace 
lies,  not  in  the  power  of  any  outside  enemy,  but 
in  the  very  goodness  of  the  woman  he  loves. 


PART  II 

^  Alas  !  there  is  no  instinct  like  the  hearts- 

The  heart — which  may  be  broken  :   happy  they ! 
Thrice  fortunate  !   who  of  that  fragile  mouldy 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay. 
Break  with  the  first  fall :  they  can  ne'er  behold 
The  long  year  linked  with  heavy  day  on  day. 
And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told.** 


CHAPTER    XV 

"y^^AN    you   stand  this  heat?"  said   Lucy, 
I  anxiously. 

^<^       "  Oh,  it  will  soon  be  cooler,"  was  Elea- 
nor's languid  reply. 

She  and  Lucy  sat  side  by  side  in  a  large  and 
ancient  landau ;  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  maid,  Marie  V^- 
four,  was  placed  opposite  to  them,  a  little  sulky 
and  silent.  On  the  box,  beside  the  driver  of  the 
lean  brown  horses,  was  a  bright -eyed,  neatly 
dressed  youth  who  was  going  with  the  ladies  to 
Torre  Amiata. 

They  had  just  left  the  hill-town  of  Orvieto,  had 
descended  rapidly  into  the  valley  lying  to  the 
southwest  of  its  crested  heights,  and  were  now 
mounting  again  on  the  farther  side.  As  they 
climbed  higher  and  higher  Lucy,  whose  atten- 
tion had  been  for  a  time  entirely  absorbed  by 
the  weariness  of  the  frail  woman  beside  her, 
began,  to  realize  that  they  were  passing  through 
a  scene  of  extraordinary  beauty.  Her  eyes,  which 
had  been  drawn  and  anxious,  relaxed.  She  looked 
round  her  with  a  natural  and  rising  joy. 

To  their  left,  as  the  road  turned  in  zigzag  to 
371 


the  east,  was  the  marvellous  town  which  the 
traveller  who  has  seen  Palestine  likens  to  Jeru- 
salem, so  steep  and  high  and  straight  is  the  crest 
of  warm  brown  and  orange  precipice  on  which  it 
stands,  so  deep  the  valleys  round  it,  so  strange 
and  complete  the  fusion  between  the  city  and 
the  rock,  so  conspicuous  the  place  of  the  great 
Cathedral,  which  is  Or  vie  to,  as  the  Temple  was 
Zion. 

It  was  the  sixth  of  June,  and  the  day  had  been 
very  hot.  The  road  was  deep  in  thick  white  dust. 
The  fig-trees  and  vines  above  the  growing  crops 
were  almost  at  a  full  leafiness ;  scarlet  poppies  grew 
thick  among  the  corn ;  and  at  the  dusty  edges  of 
the  road,  wild  roses  of  a  color  singularly  vivid  and 
deep,  the  blue  flowers  of  love-in-a-mist,  and  some 
spikes  of  wine-colored  gladiolus  struck  strangely 
on  a  northern  eye. 

Then  as  the  road  turned  back  again — behold  ! 
a  great  valley,  opening  out  westward,  beyond  Or- 
vieto, — the  valley  of  the  Paglia  ;  a  valley  with 
wooded  hills  on  either  side,  of  a  bluish -green 
color,  checkered  with  hill-towns  and  slim  campa- 
niles and  winding  roads  ;  and  binding  it  all  in 
one,  the  loops  and  reaches  of  a  full  brown  river. 
Heat  every^vhere  ! — on  the  blinding  walls  of  the 
buildings,  on  the  young  green  of  the  vineyards, 
on  the  yellowing  corn,  on  the  beautiful  ragged 
children  running  barefoot  and  bareheaded  beside 
the  carriage,  on  the  peasants  working  among  the 
vines,  on  the  drooping  heads  of  the  horses,  on  the 
brick-red  face  of  the  driver. 
372 


"  If  madame  had  only  stayed  at  Orvieto  !"  mur- 
mured Marie  the  maid,  looking  back  at  the  city 
and  then  at  her  mistress. 

Eleanor  smiled  faintly  and  tapped  the  girl's 
hand. 

"  Rassure-toi,  Marie  !  Remember  how  soon  we 
made  ourselves  comfortable  at  the  villa." 

Marie  shook  her  much  becurled  h  ^.ad.  Because 
it  had'  taken  them  three  months  to  make  the 
Marinata  villa  decently  habitable,  was  that  any 
reason  for  tempting  the  wilderness  again  ? 

Lucy,  too,  had  her  misgivings.  Nominally  she 
was  travelling,  she  supposed,  under  Eleanor  Bur- 
goyne's  chaperonage.  Really  she  was  the  guar- 
dian of  the  whole  party,  and  she  was  conscious 
of  a  tender  and  anxious  responsibility.  Already 
they  had  been  delayed  a  whole  week  in  Orvieto 
by  Eleanor's  prostrate  state.  She  had  not  been 
dangerously  ill ;  but  it  had  been  clearly  impos- 
sible to  leave  doctor  and  chemist  behind  and 
plunge  into  the  wilds.  So  they  had  hidden  them- 
selves in  a  little  Italian  inn  in  a  back  street,  and 
the  days  had  passed  somehow. 

Surely  this  hot  evening  and  their  shabby  car- 
riage and  the  dusty  unfamiliar  road  were  all 
dream-stuff — an  illusion  from  which  she  was  to 
wake  directly  and  find  herself  once  more  in  her 
room  at  Marinata,  looking  out  on  Monte  Cavo  ? 

Yet  as  this  passed  across  Lucy's  mind,  she  felt 
again  upon  her  face  the  cool  morning  wind,  as 
she  and  Eleanor  fled  down  the  Marinata  hill  in 
373 


the  early  sunlight,  between  six  and  seven  o*clock, 
— through  the  streets  of  Albano,  already  full  and 
busy,  —  along  the  edge  of  that  strange  green 
crater  of  Aricia,  looking  up  to  Pio  Nono's  great 
viaduct,  and  so  to  Cecchina,  the  railway  station 
in  the  plain. 

An  escape  ! — nothing  else ;  planned  the  night 
before  when  Lucy's  strong  common  -  sense  had 
told  her  that  the  only  chance  for  her  own  peace 
and  Eleanor's  was  to  go  at  once,  to  stop  any 
further  development  of  the  situation,  and  avoid 
any  fresh  scene  with  Mr.  Manisty. 

She  thought  of  the  details — the  message  left 
for  Aunt  Pattie  that  they  had  gone  into  Rome 
to  shop  before  the  heat ;  then  the  telegram  "  Ur- 
gente,"  despatched  to  the  villa  after  they  were 
sure  that  Mr.  Manisty  must  have  safely  left  it 
for  that  important  field  day  of  his  clerical  and 
Ultramontane  friends  in  Rome,  in  which  he  was 
pledged  to  take  part ;  then  the  arrival  of  the 
startled  and  bewildered  Aunt  Pattie  at  the  small 
hotel  where  they  were  in  hiding — her  conferences 
— first  with  Eleanor,  then  with  Lucy. 

Strange  little  lady.  Aunt  Pattie !  How  much 
had  she  guessed  ?  What  had  passed  between  her 
and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?  When  at  last  she  and  Lucy 
stood  together  hand  in  hand,  the  girl's  sensitive 
spirit  had  divined  in  her  a  certain  stiffening,  a 
certain  diminution  of  that  constant  kindness 
which  she  had  always  shown  her  guest.  Did 
Aunt  Pattie  blame  her  ?  Had  she  cherished  her 
own  views  and  secret  hopes  for  her  nephew  and 
374 


Mrs.  Burgoyne  ?  Did  she  feel  that  Lucy  had  in 
some  way  unwarrantably  and  ambitiously  inter- 
fered with  them  ? 

At  any  rate,  Lucy  had  divined  the  unspoken 
inference  *'You  must  have  given  him  encour- 
agement !"  and  behind  it — perhaps  ? — the  secret 
ineradicable  pride  of  family  and  position  that 
held  her  no  fitting  match  for  Edward  Manisty. 
Lucy's  inmost  mind  was  still  sore  and  shrinking 
from  this  half-hour's  encounter  with  Aunt  Pattie. 

But  she  had  not  shown  it.  And  at  the  end  of 
it  Aunt  Pattie  had  kissed  her  ruefully  with  tears 
— "  It's  very  good  of  you  !  You'll  take  care  of 
Eleanor  !" 

Lucy  could  hear  her  own  answer — "  Indeed,  in- 
deed, I  will!"  —  and  Aunt  Pattie's  puzzled  cry, 
"  If  only  some  one  would  tell  me  what  I'm  to  do 
with  him  /" 

And  then  she  recalled  her  own  pause  of  won- 
der as  Aunt  Pattie  left  her  —  beside  the  hotel 
window,  looking  into  the  narrow  side  street.  Why 
was  it  '•  very  good  of  her  "  ? — and  why,  neverthe- 
less, was  this  dislocation  of  all  their  plans  felt  to 
be  somehow  her  fault  and  responsibility? — even 
by  herself?  There  was  a  sudden  helpless  incli- 
nation to  laugh  over  the  topsy-turviness  of  it  all. 

And  then  her  heart  had  fluttered  in  her  breast, 
stabbed  by  the  memory  of  Eleanor's  cry  the  night 
before.  "  It  is  of  no  use  to  say  that  you  know 
nothing— that  he  has  said  nothing.  /  know.  If 
you  stay,  he  will  give  you  no  peace — his  will  is 
indomitable.  But  if  you  go,  he  will  guess  my 
375 


part  in  it.  I  shall  not  have  the  physical  strength 
to  conceal  it — and  he  can  be  a  hard  man  when 
he  is  resisted  !  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  would  go 
home  at  once — but — I  might  die  on  the  way. 
Why  not  ?" 

And  then — in  painful  gasps — the  physical  sit- 
uation had  been  revealed  to  her — the  return  of 
old  symptoms  and  the  reappearance  of  arrested 
disease.  The  fear  of  the  physical  organism  alter- 
nating with  the  despair  of  the  lonely  and  aban- 
doned soul, — never  could  Lucy  forget  the  horror 
of  that  hour's  talk,  outwardly  so  quiet,  as  she  sat 
holding  Eleanor's  hands  in  hers,  and  the  flood- 
gates of  personality  and  of  grief  were  opened  be- 
fore her. 

Meanwhile  the  patient,  sweating  horses  climbed 
and  climbed.  Soon  they  were  at  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  and  looking  back  for  their  last  sight  of  Or- 
vieto.  And  now  they  were  on  a  broad  table-land, 
a  bare,  sun-baked  region  where  huge  flocks  of 
sheep,  of  white,  black,  and  brown  goats  wandered 
with  ragged  shepherds  over  acres  of  burned  and 
thirsty  pasture.  Here  and  there  were  patches 
of  arable  land  and  groups  of  tilling  peasants  in 
the  wide  untidy  expanse;  once  or  twice  too  an 
osteria,  with  its  bush  or  its  wine-stained  tables 
under  the  shadow  of  its  northern  wall.  But 
scarcely  a  farm-house.  Once  indeed  a  great  build- 
ing like  a  factory  or  a  workhouse,  in  the  midst 
of  wide  sun-beaten  fields.  *' Ecco  !  la  fattoria," 
said  the  driver,  pointing  to  it.  And  once  a 
376 


strange  group  of  underground  dwellings,  their 
chimneys  level  with  the  surrounding  land,  whence 
wild  swarms  of  troglodyte  children  rushed  up 
from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to  see  the  carriage 
pass  and  shriek  for  soldi. 

But  the  beauty  of  the  sun-scorched  upland  was 
its  broom !  Sometimes  they  were  in  deep  tufa 
lanes,  like  English  lanes,  save  for  their  walls 
and  canopies  of  gold ;  sometimes  they  journeyed 
through  wide  barren  stretches,  where  only  broom 
held  the  soil  against  all  comers,  spreading  in 
sheets  of  gold  beneath  the  dazzling  sky.  Large 
hawks  circled  overhead  ;  in  the  rare  woods  the 
nightingales  were  loud  and  merry  ;  and  gold- 
finches were  everywhere.  A  hot,  lonely,  thirsty 
land — the  heart  of  Italy — where  the  rocks  are 
honeycombed  with  the  tombs  of  that  mysterious 
Etruscan  race,  the  Melchisedeck*  of  the  nations, 
coming  no  one  knows  whence,  "without  father 
and  without  mother  " — a  land  which  has  to  the 
west  of  it  the  fever-stricken  Maremma  and  the 
heights  of  the  Amiata  range,  and  to  the  south 
the  forest  country  of  Viterbo. 

Eleanor  looked  out  upon  the  road  and  the  fields 
with  eyes  that  faintly  remembered,  and  a  heart 
held  now,  as  always,  in  the  grip  of  that  tempo 
felice  which  was  dead. 

It  was  she  who  had  proposed  this  journey. 
Once  in  late  November  she  and  Aunt  Pattie  and 
Manisty  had  spent  two  or  three  days  at  Orvieto 
with  some  Italian  friends.  They  had  made  the 
journey  back  to  Rome,  partly  by  vetturtno.  driv- 
377 


itig  from  Orvieto  to  Bolsena  and  Viterbo,  and 
spending  a  night  on  the  way  at  a  place  of  remote 
and  enchanting  beauty  which  had  left  a  deep 
mark  on  Eleanor's  imagination.  They  owed  the 
experience  to  their  Italian  friends,  acquaintances 
of  the  great  proprietor  whose  agent  gave  the 
whole  party  hospitality  for  the  night ;  and  as 
they  jogged  on  through  this  June  heat  she  re- 
called with  bitter  longing  the  bright  November 
day,  the  changing  leaves,  the  upland  air,  and 
Manisty's  delight  in  the  strange  unfamiliar  coun- 
try, in  the  vast  oak  woods  above  the  Paglia,  and 
the  marvellous  church  at  Monte  Fiascone. 

But  it  was  not  the  agent's  house,  the  scene  of 
their  former  stay,  to  which  she  was  now  guiding 
Lucy.  When  she  and  Manisty,  hurrying  out  for 
an  early  walk  before  the  carriage  started,  had  ex- 
plored a  corner  of  the  dense  oak  woods  below  the 
palazzo  on  the  hill,  they  had  come  across  a  de- 
serted convent,  with  a  contadino's  family  in  one 
corner  of  it,  and  a  ruinous  chapel  with  a  couple 
of  dim  frescoes  attributed  to  Pinturicchio. 

How  well  she  remembered  Manisty's  rage  over 
the  spoliation  of  the  convent  and  the  ruin  of  the 
chapel  !  He  had  gone  stalking  over  the  deserted 
place,  raving  against  "those  brigands  from  Sa- 
voy," and  calculating  how  much  it  would  cost  to 
buy  back  the  place  from  the  rascally  Municipio 
of  Orvieto,  to  whom  it  now  belonged,  and  return 
it  to  its  former  Carmelite  owners. 

Meanwhile  Eleanor  had  gossiped  with  the 
massaja,  or  farmer's  wife,  and  had  found  out  that 
378 


there  were  a  few  habitable  rooms  in  the  convent 
still,  roughly  furnished,  and  that  in  summer,  peo- 
ple of  a  humble  sort  came  there  sometimes  from 
Orvieto  for  coolness  and  change  —  the  plateau 
being  3000  feet  above  the  sea.  Eleanor  had  in- 
quired if  English  people  ever  came. 

'''' Inglesi !  no! — mai  Inglesi^'  said  the  woman 
in  astonishment. 

The  family  were,  however,  in  some  sort  of  con- 
nection with  an  hotel  proprietor  at  Orvieto, 
through  whom  they  got  their  lodgers.  Eleanor 
had  taken  down  the  name  and  all  particulars  in 
a  fit  of  enthusiasm  for  the  beauty  and  loneliness 
of  the  place.  "  Suppose  some  day  we  came  here 
to  write  ?"  Manisty  had  said  vaguely,  looking 
round  him  with  regret  as  they  drove  away.  The 
mere  suggestion  had  made  the  name  of  Torre 
Amiata  sweet  to  Eleanor  thenceforward. 

Was  it  likely  that  he  would  remember  ? — that 
he  would  track  them  ?  Hardly.  He  would  surely 
think  that  in  this  heat  they  would  go  northward. 
He  would  not  dream  of  looking  for  them  in  Italy. 

She  too  was  thinking  of  nothing — nothing  ! — 
but  the  last  scenes  at  the  villa  and  in  Rome,  as 
the  carriage  moved  along.  The  phrases  of  her 
letter  to  Manisty  ran  through  her  mind.  Had 
they  made  him  her  lasting  enemy  ?  The  thought 
was  like  a  wound  draining  blood  and  strength. 
But  in  her  present  state  of  jealous  passion  it  was 
more  tolerable  than  that  other  thought  which 
was  its  alternative  —  the  thought  of  Lucy  sur- 
rendered, Lucy  in  her  place. 
379 


"Lucy  Foster  is  with  me,"  she  had  written. 
"  We  wish  to  be  together  for  a  while  before  she 
goes  back  to  America.  And  that  we  may  be 
quite  alone,  we  prefer  to  give  no  address  for  a 
few  weeks.  I  have  written  to  papa  to  say  that  I 
am  going  away  for  a  time  with  a  friend,  to  rest 
and  recruit.  You  and  Aunt  Pattie  could  easily 
arrange  that  there  should  be  no  talk  and  no  gos- 
sip about  the  matter.  I  hope  and  think  you  will. 
Of  course  if  we  are  in  any  strait  or  difficulty  we 
shall  communicate  at  once  with  our  friends." 

How  had  he  received  it?  Sometimes  she 
thought  of  his  anger  and  disappointment  with 
terror,  sometimes  with  a  vindictive  excitement 
that  poisoned  all  her  being.  Gentleness  turned 
to  hate  and  violence, — was  it  of  that  in  truth, 
and  not  of  that  heart  mischief  to  which  doctors 
gave  long  names,  that  Eleanor  Burgoyne  was 
dying? 

They  had  turned  into  a  wide  open  space  crossed 
by  a  few  wire  fences  at  vast  intervals.  The  land 
was  mostly  rough  pasture,  or  mere  sandy  rock 
and  scrub.  In  the  glowing  west,  towards  which 
they  journeyed,  rose  far  purple  peaks  peering 
over  the  edge  of  the  great  table -land.  To  the 
east  and  south  vast  woods  closed  in  the  horizon. 

The  carriage  left  the  main  road  and  entered 
an  ill-defined  track  leading  apparently  through 
private  property. 

"Ah!     I   remember!"  cried  Eleanor,  starting 
up.     "There  is  th.Q palazzo — and  the  village'* 
380 


In  front  of  them,  indeed,  rose  an  old  villa  of 
the  Renaissance,  with  its  long  flat  roofs,  its  fine 
loggia^  and  terraced  vineyards.  A  rude  village 
of  gray  stone,  part  it  seemed  of  the  tufa  rocks 
from  which  it  sprang,  pressed  round  the  villa,  in- 
vaded its  olive-gardens,  crept  up  to  its  very  walls. 
Meanwhile  the  earth  grew  kinder  and  more  fer- 
tile. The  vines  and  figs  stood  thick  again  among 
the  green  corn  and  flowering  liicerne.  Peasants 
streaming  home  from  work,  the  men  on  donkeys, 
the  women  carrying  their  babies,  met  the  car- 
riage and  stopped  to  stare  after  it,  and  talk. 

Suddenly  from  the  ditches  of  the  road -side 
sprang  up  two  martial  figures. 

"  Carabinieri !"  cried  Lucy  in  delight. 

She  had  made  friends  with  several  members 
of  this  fine  corps  on  the  closely  guarded  roads 
about  the  Alban  lake,  and  to  see  them  here  gave 
her  a  sense  of  protection. 

Bending  over  the  side  of  the  carristge,  she 
nodded  to  the  two  handsome  brown-skinned  fel- 
lows, who  smiled  back  at  her. 

"How  far,"  she  said,  "to  Santa  Trinita?" 

"Z7«  miglio  grasso  (a  good  mile),  Signorina. 
E  tutto.  But  you  are  late.  They  expected  you 
half  an  hour  ago." 

The  driver  took  this  for  reproach,  and  with  a 
shrill  burst  of  defence  pointed  to  his  smoking 
horses.  The  Carabinieri  laughed,  and  diving  into 
the  field,  one  on  either  side,  they  kept  up  with 
the  carriage  as  it  neared  the  village. 

"  Why,  it  is  like  coming  home !"  said  Lucjr^ 
381 


wondering.  And  indeed  they  were  now  sur- 
rounded  by  the  whole  village  population,  just 
returned  from  the  fields — pointing,  chattering, 
laughing,  shouting  friendly  directions  to  the 
driver.  "  Santa  Trinita !"  "  Ecco  !— Santa  Trin- 
ita !"  sounded  on  all  sides,  amid  a  forest  of  ges- 
ticulating hands. 

"  How  could  they  know?"  said  Eleanor,  looking 
at  the  small  crowd  with  startled  eyes. 

Lucy  spoke  a  word  to  the  young  man  on  the 
box. 

*'  They  knew,  he  says,  as  soon  as  the  carriage 
was  ordered  yesterday.  Look !  there  are  the 
telegraph  wires !  The  whole  country-side  knows ! 
They  are  greatly  excited  by  the  coming  oi  fores- 
fieri — especially  at  this  time  of  year." 

"  Oh !  we  can't  stay !"  said  Eleanor  with  a  little 
moan,  wringing  her  hands. 

"It's  only  the  country  people,"  said  Lucy  ten- 
derly, taking  one  of  the  hands  in  hers.  "  Did 
you  see  the  Contessa  when  you  were  here  be- 
fore ?" 

And  she  glanced  up  at  the  great  yellow  mass 
of  th&  palazzo  towering  above  the  little  town,  the 
sunset  light  flaming  on  its  long  western  face. 

"No.  She  was  away.  And  the  fattore  who 
took  us  in  left  in  January.    There  is  a  new  man." 

"  Then  it's  quite  safe !"  said  Lucy  in  French. 
And  her  kind  deep  eyes  looked  steadily  into 
Eleanor's,  as  though  mutely  cheering  and  sup- 
porting her. 

Eleanor  unconsciously  pressed  her  hand  upon 
382 


her  breast.  She  was  looking  round  her  in  a  sud- 
den anguish  of  memory.  For,  now  they  were 
through  the  village,  they  were  descending — they 
were  in  the  woods.  Ah !  the  white  walls  of  the 
convent — the  vacant  windows  in  its  ruined  end 
— and  at  the  gate  of  the  rough  farm-yard  that 
surrounded  it  the  stalwart  capoccia,  the  grinning, 
harsh-featured  wife  that  she  remembered. 

She  stepped  feebly  down  upon  the  dusty  road. 
When  her  feet  last  pressed  it,  Manisty  was  beside 
her,  and  the  renewing  force  of  love  and  joy  was 
filling  all  the  sources  of  her  being. 


CHAPTER     XVI 

•*  ^^^  AN  you  bear  it  ?    Can  you  be  comfort- 
I  able  ?"  said  Lucy,  in  some  dismay. 

V-^  They  were  in  one  of  the  four  or  five 
bare  rooms  that  had  been  given  up  to  them.  A 
bed  with  a  straw  palliasse,  one  or  two  broken 
chairs,  and  bits  of  worm-eaten  furniture  filled 
what  had  formerly  been  one  of  a  row  of  cells 
running  along  an  upper  corridor.  The  floor  was 
of  brick  and  very  dirty.  Against  the  wall  a  tat- 
tered canvas,  a  daub  of  St.  Laurence  and  hi^ 
gridiron,  still  recalled  the  former  uses  of  the 
room. 

They  had  given  orders  for  a  few  comforts  to 
be  sent  out  from  Orvieto,  but  the  cart  convey- 
ing them  had  not  yet  arrived.  Meanwhile  Marie 
was  crying  in  the  next  room,  and  the  contadina 
was  looking  on  astonished  and  a  little  sulky. 
The  people  who  came  from  Orvieto  never  com- 
plained. What  was  wrong  with  the  ladies  ? 
Eleanor  looked  around  her  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 
Then  she  looked  at  Lucy. 

"What  care  we  take  of  you!  How  well  we 
look  after  you  !" 

384 


And  she  dropped  her  head  on  her  hands  in 
a  fit  of  hysterical  laughter — very  near  to  sobs. 

"  I !"  cried  Lucy.  "  As  if  I  couldn't  sleep  any- 
where, and  eat  anything !  But  you — that's  an- 
other business.  When  the  cart  comes,  we  can 
fix  you  up  a  little  better — but  to-night .'" 

She  looked,  frowning,  round  the  empty  room. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  do  anything  with — or  I'd 
set  to  work  right  away.'* 

'^  Ecco,  Signora  !"  said  the  farmer's  wife.  She 
carried  triumphantly  in  her  hands  a  shaky  car- 
pet-chair, the  only  article  of  luxury  apparently 
that  the  convent  provided. 

Eleanor  thanked  her,  and  the  woman  stood 
with  her  hands  on  her  hips,  surveying  them. 
She  frowned,  but  only  because  she  was  thinking 
hard  how  she  could  somehow  propitiate  these 
strange  beings,  so  well  provided,  as  it  seemed, 
with  superfluous  lire. 

"  Ah  !"  she  cried  suddenly  ;  "  but  the  ladies 
have  not  seen  our  bella  vista  I  —  our  loggia ! 
Santa  Madonna  !  but  I  have  lost  my  senses ! 
Signorina  !  venga — venga  lei.'' 

And  beckoning  Lucy  she  pulled  open  a  door 
that  had  remained  unnoticed  in  the  corner  of  the 
room. 

Lucy  and  Eleanor  followed. 

Even  Eleanor  joined  her  cry  of  delight  to 
Lucy's. 

"  Ecco  !"  said  the  massaja  proudly,  as  though 
the  whole  landscape  were  her  chattel, — "  Monte 
Amiata  !  Selvapendente — the  Paglia — does  the 
385' 


Signora  see  the  bridge  down  there  t—veda  lei^ 
under  Selvapendente  ?  Those  forests  on  the 
mountain  there — they  belong  all  to  the  Casa 
Guerrini — tutto^  tutto !  as  far  as  the  Signorina 
can  see !  And  that  little  house  there,  on  the  hill 
— thsit  casa  dicaccia — that  was  poor  Don  Emilio's, 
that  was  killed  in  the  war." 

And  she  chattered  on,  in  2i  patois  not  always 
intelligible,  even  to  Eleanor's  trained  ear,  about 
the  widowed  Contessa,  her  daughter,  and  her  son  ; 
about  the  new  roads  that  Don  Emilio  had  made 
through  the  woods;  of  the  repairs  and  rebuild- 
ing at  the  Villa  Guerrini  —  all  stopped  since 
his  death  ;  of  the  Sindaco  of  Selvapendente, 
who  often  came  up  to  Torre  Amiata  for  the 
summer ;  of  the  nuns  in  the  new  convent  just 
built  there  under  the  hill,  and  their  fattore^ — 
whose  son  was  with  Don  Emilio  after  he  was 
wounded,  when  the  poor  young  man  implored 
his  own  men  to  shoot  him  and  put  him  out  of  his 
pain — who  had  stayed  with  him  till  he  died,  and 
had  brought  his  watch  and  pocket-book  back  to 
the  Contessa 

"  Is  the  Contessa  here?"  said  Eleanor,  looking 
at  the  woman  with  the  strained  and  startled  air 
that  was  becoming  habitual  to  her,  as  though 
each  morsel  of  passing  news  only  served  some- 
how to  make  life's  burden  heavier. 

But   certainly  the   Contessa   was  here !     She 
and    Donna   Teresa   were    always    at   the   villa. 
Once  they  used    to   go  to  Rome  and  Florence 
part  of  the  year,  but  now — no  more ! 
386 


A  sudden  uproar  arose  from  below — of  crying 
children  and  barking  dogs.  The  woman  threw 
up  her  hands.  "  What  are  they  doing,  to  me  with 
the  baby  ?"  she  cried,  and  disappeared, 

Lucy  went  back  to  fetch  the  carpet-chair.  She 
caught  up  also  a  couple  of  Florentine  silk  blank- 
ets that  were  among  their  wraps.  She  laid  them 
on  the  bricks  of  the  loggia^  found  a  rickety  table 
in  Eleanor's  room,  her  travelling  -  bag,  and  a 
shawl. 

"  Don't  take  such  trouble  about  me !"  said 
Eleanor,  almost  piteously,  as  Lucy  established 
her  comfortably  in  the  chair,  with  a  shawl  over 
her  knees  and  a  book  or  two  beside  her. 

Lucy  with  a  soft  little  laugh  stooped  and  kissed 
her. 

"  Now  I  must  go  and.  dry  Marie's  tears.  Then 
I  shall  dive  down-stairs  and  discover  the  kitchen. 
They  say  they've  got  a  cook,  and  the  dinner  '11 
soon  be  ready.  Isn't  that  lovely  ?  And  I'm  sure 
the  cart  '11  be  here  directly.  It's  the  most  beau- 
tiful place  I  evei  saw  in  my  life  !"  said  Lucy, 
clasping  her  hands  a  moment  in  a  gesture  familiar 
to  her,  and  turning  towards  the  great  prospect  of 
mountain,  wood,  and  river.  "  And  it's  so  strange 
— so  strange  !  It's  like  another  Italy  !  Why, 
these  woods — they  might  be  just  in  a  part  of 
Maine  I  know.  You  can't  see  a  vineyard— not 
one.  And  the  air — isn't  it  fresh  ?  Isn't  it  love- 
ly ?  Wouldn't  you  guess  you  were  three  thou- 
sand feet  up  ?  I  just  know  this — we're  going  to 
make  you  comfortable.  I'm  going  right  down 
387 


now  to  send  that  cart  back  to  Orvieto  for  a  lot  of 
things.  And  you're  going  to  get  ever,  ever  so 
much  better,  aren't  you  ?     Say  you  will !" 

The  girl  fell  on  her  knees  beside  Eleanor,  and 
took  the  other's  thin  hands  into  her  own.  Her 
face,  thrown  back,  had  lost  its  gayety ;  her 
mouth  quivered. 

Eleanor  met  the  girl's  tender  movement  dry- 
eyed.  For  the  hundredth  time  that  day  she  asked 
herself  the  feverish,  torturing  question — "  Does 
she  love  him  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  shall  get  better,"  she  said  lightly, 
stroking  the  girl's  hair  ;  "  or  if  not — what  mat- 
ter?" 

Lucy  shook  her  head. 

"  You  must  get  better,"  she  said  in  a  low,  de- 
termined voice.     "  And  it  must  all  come  right." 

Eleanor  was  silent.  In  her  own  heart  she 
knew  more  finally,  more  irrevocably  every  hour 
that  for  her  it  would  never  come  right.  But  how 
say  to  Lucy  that  her  whole  being  hung  now — not 
on  any  hope  for  herself,  but  on  the  fierce  resolve 
that  there  should  be  none  for  Manisty  ? 

Lucy  gave  a  long  sigh,  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
went  off  to  household  duties. 

Eleanor  was  left  alone.  Her  eyes,  bright  with 
fever,  fixed  themselves,  unseeing,  on  the  sunset 
sky,  and  the  blue,  unfamiliar  peaks  beneath  it. 

Cheerful  sounds  of  rioting  children  and  loud- 
voiced  housewives  came  from  below.  Presently 
there  was  a  distant  sound  of  wheels,  and  the 
carro  from  Orvieto  appeared,  escorted  by  th^ 
388 


whole  village,  who  watched  its  unpacking  with 
copious  comment  on  each  article,  and  a  perpetual 
scuffling  for  places  in  the  front  line  of  observation. 
Even  the  padre  parroco  and  the  doctor  paused 
as  they  passed  along  the  road,  and  Lucy  as  she 
flitted  about  caught  sight  of  the  smiling  young 
priest,  in  his  flat  broad-brimmed  hat  and  caped 
soutane,  side  by  side  with  the  meditative  and 
gloomy  countenance  of  the  doctor,  who  stood 
with  his  legs  apart,  smoking  like  a  chimney. 

But  Lucy  had  no  time  to  watch  the  crowd. 
She  was  directing  the  men  with  the  carro  where 
to  place  the  cooking-stove  that  had  been  brought 
from  Orvieto,  in  the  dark  and  half-ruinous  kitch- 
en on  the  lower  floor  of  the  convent;  marvelling 
the  while  at  the  risotto  and  the  polio  that  the 
local  artist,  their  new  cook,  the  sister  of  the  far- 
mer's wife,  was  engaged  in  producing,  out  of  ap- 
parently nothing  in  the  way  either  of  fire  or 
tools.  She  was  conferring  with  Cecco  the  little 
man-servant,  who,  with  less  polish  than  Alfredo, 
but  with  a  like  good  -  will,  was  running  hither 
and  thither,  intent  only  on  pleasing  his  ladies, 
and  on  somehow  finding  enough  spoons  and 
forks  to  lay  a  dinner-table  with  ;  or  she  was  al- 
ternately comforting  and  laughing  at  Marie, 
who  was  for  the  moment  convinced  that  Italy 
was  pure  and  simple  Hades,  and  Torre  Amiata 
the  lowest  gulf  thereof. 

Thus — under  the  soft,  fresh  evening — the  whole 
forlorn  and  ruinous  building  was  once  more  alive 
with  noise  and  gayety,  with  the  tread  of  men  car- 
389 


rying  packages,  with  the  fun  of  skirmishing  chil- 
dren, with  the  cries  of  the  cook  and  Cecco,  with 
Lucy's  stumbling  yet  sweet  Italian. 

Eleanor  only  was  alone  —  but  how  terribly 
alcne ! 

She  sat  where  Lucy  had  left  her — motionless 
— her  hands  hanging  listlessly.  She  had  been 
always  thin,  but  in  the  last  few  weeks  she  had 
become  a  shadow.  Her  dress  had  lost  its  old 
perfection,  though  its  carelessness  was  still  the 
carelessness  of  instinctive  grace,  of  a  woman  who 
could  not  throw  on  a  shawl  or  a  garden-hat  with- 
out a  natural  trick  of  hand,  that  held  even 
through  despair  and  grief.  The  delicacy  and 
emaciation  of  the  face  had  now  gone  far  beyond 
the  bounds  of  beauty.  It  spoke  of  disease,  and 
drew  the  pity  of  the  passer-by. 

Her  loneliness  grew  upon  her — penetrated  and 
pursued  her.  She  could  not  resign  herself  to  it. 
She  was  always  struggling  with  it,  beating  it 
away,  as  a  frightened  child  might  struggle  with 
the  wave  that  overwhelms  it  on  the  beach.  A 
few  weeks  ago  she  had  been  so  happy,  so  rich  in 
friends — the  world  had  been  so  warm  and  kind  ! 

And  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  no 
friends  ;  no  one  to  whom  she  could  turn ;  no 
one  she  wished  to  see,  except  this  girl — this  girl 
she  had  known  barely  a  couple  of  months — by 
whom  she  had  been  made  desolate  ! 

She  thought  of  those  winter  gatherings  in 
Rome  which  she  had  enjoyed  with  so  keen  a 
pleasure  ;  the  women  she  had  liked,  who  had 
390 


liked  her  in  return,  to  whom  her  eager  wish  to 
love  and  be  loved  had  made  her  delightful. 
But  beneath  her  outward  sweetness  she  carried 
a  proud  and  often  unsuspected  reserve.  She 
had  made  a  confidante  of  no  one.  That  her  re- 
lation to  Manisty  was  accepted  and  understood 
in  Rome  ;  that  it  was  regarded  as  a  romance, 
with  which  it  was  not  so  much  ill-natured  as  ri- 
diculous to  associate  a  breath  of  scandal — a  ro- 
mance which  all  kind  hearts  hoped  might  end  as 
most  of  such  things  should  end— all  this  she  knew. 
She  had  been  proud  of  her  place  beside  him, 
proud  of  Rome's  tacit  recognition  of  her  claim 
upon  him.  But  she  had  told  her  heart  to  nobody. 
Her  wild  scene  with  Lucy  stood  out  unique,  un- 
paralleled in  the  story  of  her  life. 

And  now  there  was  no  one  she  craved  to  see — 
not  one.  With  the  instinct  of  the  stricken  ani- 
mal she  turned  from  her  kind.  Her  father? 
What  had  he  ever  been  to  her?  Aunt  Pattie? 
Her  very  sympathy  and  pity  made  Eleanor 
thankful  to  be  parted  from  her.  Other  kith  and 
kin?  Nol  Happy,  she  could  have  loved  them  ; 
miserable,  she  cared  for  none  of  them.  Her  un- 
lucky marriage  had  numbed  and  silenced  her  for 
years.  From  that  frost  the  waters  of  life  had 
been  loosened,  only  to  fail  now  at  their  very 
source. 

Her  whole  nature  was  one  wound.  At  the  mo- 
ment when,  standing  spellbound  in  the  shadow, 
she  had  seen  Manisty  stooping  over  the  uncon- 
scious Lucy,  and  had  heard  his  tender  breathless 
391 


words,  the  sword  had  fallen,  dividing  the  very 
roots  of  being. 

And  now — strange  irony  ! — the  only  heart  on 
which  she  leaned,  the  only  hand  to  which  she 
clung,  were  the  heart  and  the  hand  of  Lucy  ! 

"Why,  why  are  we  here?"  she  cried  to  herself 
with  a  sudden  change  of  position  and  of  anguish. 

Was  not  their  flight  a  mere  absurdity  ? — hu- 
miliation for  herself,  since  it  revealed  what  no 
woman  should  reveal — but  useless,  ridiculous  as 
any  check  on  Manisty!  Would  he  give  up  Lucy 
because  she  might  succeed  in  hiding  her  for  a 
few  weeks  ?  Was  that  passionate  will  likely  to 
resign  itself  to  the  momentary  defeat  she  had  in- 
flicted on  it  ?  Supposing  she  succeeded  in  de- 
spatching Lucy  to  America  without  any  further 
interview  between  them;  are  there  no  steamers 
and  trains  to  take  impatient  lovers  to  their  goal  ? 
What  childish  folly  was  the  whole  proceeding  ! 

And  would  she  even  succeed  so  far?  Might  he 
not  even  now  be  on  their  track  ?  How  possible 
that  he  should  remember  this  place — its  isola- 
tion— and  her  pleasure  in  it!  She  started  in  her 
chair.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  already  heard 
his  feet  upon  the  road. 

Then  her  thought  rebounded  in  a  fierce  tri- 
umph, an  exultation  that  shook  the  feeble  frame. 
She  was  secure!  She  was  entrenched,  so  to  speak. 
in  Lucy's  heart.  Never  would  that  nature  grasp 
its  own  joy  at  the  cost  of  another's  agony.  No! 
no! — she  is  not  in  love  with  him! — the  poor  hur- 
rying brain  insisted.  She  has  been  interested, 
392 


excited,  touched.  That,  he  can  always  achieve 
with  any  woman,  if  he  pleases.  But  time  and 
change  soon  wear  down  these  first  fancies  of 
youth.  There  is  no  real  congruity  between  them 
— there  never,  never  could  be. 

But  supposing  it  were  not  so — supposing  Lucy 
could  be  reached  and  affected  by  Manisty's  pur- 
suit, still  Eleanor  was  safe.  She  knew  well  what 
had  been  the  effect,  what  would  now  be  the  in- 
creasing effect  of  her  weakness  and  misery  on 
Lucy's  tender  heart.  By  the  mere  living  in  Lucy's 
sight  she  would  gain  her  end.  From  the  first  she 
had  realized  the  inmost  quality  of  the  girl's  strong 
and  diffident  personality.  What  Manisty  feared 
she  counted  on. 

Sometimes,  just  for  a  moment,  as  one  may  lean 
over  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  she  imagined  herself 
yielding,  recalling  Manisty,  withdrawing  her  own 
claim,  and  the  barrier  raised  by  her  own  vindic- 
tive agony.  The  mind  sped  along  the  details  that 
might  follow — the  girl's  loyal  resistance — Manis- 
ty's  ardor — Manisty's  fascination — the  homage 
and  the  seduction,  the  quarrels  and  the  impa- 
tience with  which  he  would  surround  her — the 
scenes  in  which  Lucy's  reserve  mingling  with 
her  beauty  would  but  evoke  on  the  man's  side 
all  the  ingenuity,  all  the  delicacy  of  which  he  was 
capable — and  the  final  softening  of  that  sweet 
austerity  which  hid  Lucy's  heart  of  gold. — 

No ! — Lucy  had  no  passion  ! — she  would  tell 
lierself  with  a  feverish,  an  angry  vehemehce. 
&OW  would  she  ever  bear  with  Manisty,  with 
o  393 


the  alternate  excess  anii  defect  of  his  temper- 
ament ? 

And  suddenly,  amid  the  shadows  of  the  past 
winter  Eleanor  would  see  herself  writing,  and 
Manisty  stooping  over  her, — his  hand  taking  her 
pen,  his  shoulder  touching  hers.  His  hand  was 
strong,  nervous,  restless  like  himself.  Her  ro- 
mantic imagination  that  was  half  natural,  half 
literary,  delighted  to  trace  in  it  both  caprice  and 
power.  When  it  touched  her  own  slender  fin- 
gers, it  seemed  to  her  they  could  but  just  restrain 
themselves  from  nestling  into  his.  She  would 
draw  herself  back  in  haste,  lest  some  involun- 
tary movement  should  betray  her.  But  not  be- 
fore the  lightning  thought  had  burned  its  way 
through  her — "What  if  one  just  fell  back  against 
his  breast  —  and  all  was  said  —  all  ventured  in 
a  moment!  Afterwards^ — ecstasy,  or  despair — 
what  matter  !" — 

When  would  Lucy  have  dared  even  such  a 
dream  ?  Eleanor's  wild  jealousy  would  secretly 
revenge  itself  on  the  girl's  maidenly  coldness,  on 
the  young  stiffness,  Manisty  had  once  mocked  at. 
How  incredible  that  she  should  have  attracted 
him  ! — how  impossible  that  she  should  continue 
to  attract  him  !  All  Lucy's  immaturities  and  de- 
fects passed  through  Eleanor's  analyzing  thought. 

For  a  moment  she  saw  her  coldly,  odiously,  as 
an  enemy  might  see  her. 

And  then  ! — quick  revulsion — a  sudden  loath- 
ing of  herself  —  a  sudden  terror  of  these  new 
meannesses  and  bitterness  that  were  invading 
394 


her,  stealing  from  her  her  very  self,  robbing  her 
of  the  character  that  unconsciously  she  had  loved 
in  herself,  as  other  people  loved  it — knowing  that 
in  deed  and  truth  she  was  what  others  thought 
her  to  be,  kind,  and  gentle,  and  sweet-natured. 

And  last  of  all — poor  soul ! — an  abject  tender- 
ness and  repentance  towards  Lucy,  which  yet 
brought  no  relief,  because  it  never  affected  for 
an  instant  the  fierce  tension  of  will  beneath. 

A  silvery  night  stole  upon  the  sunset,  absorbed, 
transmuted  all  the  golds  and  crimsons  of  the  west 
into  its  own  dimly  shining  blue. 

Eleanor  was  in  bed ;  Lucy's  clever  hands  had 
worked  wonders  with  her  room  ;  and  now  Elea- 
nor had  been  giving  quick  remorseful  directions 
to  Marie  to  concern  herself  a  little  with  Miss 
Foster's  comfort  and  Miss  Foster's  luggage. 

Lucy  escaped  from  the  rooms  littered  with 
trunks  and  clothes.  She  took  her  hat  and  a  light 
cape,  and  stole  out  into  the  broad  passage,  on 
either  side  of  which  opened  the  long  series  of 
small  rooms  which  had  once  been  Carmelite  cells. 
Only  the  four  or  five  rooms  at  the  western  end, 
the  bare  "  apartment "  which  they  occupied,  were 
still  whole  and  water-tight.  Half-way  down  the 
passage,  as  Lucy  had  already  discovered,  you 
came  to  rooms  where  the  windows  had  no  glass 
and  the  plaster  had  dropped  from  the  walls,  and 
the  ceilings  hung  down  in  great  gaps  and  rags  of 
ruin.  There  was  a  bay-window  at  the  eastern 
end  of  the  passage,  which  had  been  lately  glazed 
for  the  summer  tenants'  sake.  The  rising  mo... 
395 


streamed  through  on  the  desolation  of  the  damp- 
stained  walls  and  floors.  And  a  fresh  upland 
wind  was  beginning  to  blow  and  whistle  through 
the  empty  and  windowless  cells.  Even  Lucy 
shivered  a  little.  It  was  perhaps  not  wonderful 
that  the  French  maid  should  be  in  revolt. 

Then  she  went  softly  down  an  old  stone  stair- 
case to  the  lower  floor.  Here  was  the  same 
long  passage  with  rooms  on  either  side,  but  in 
even  worse  condition.  At  the  far  end  was  a 
glow  of  light  and  a  hum  of  voices,  coming  from 
the  corner  of  the  building  occupied  by  the  conta- 
dino^  and  their  own  kitchen.  But  between  the 
heavy  front  door,  that  Lucy  was  about  to  open, 
and  the  distant  light,  was  an  earthen  floor  full  of 
holes  and  gaps,  and  on  either  side  —  caverns  of 
desolation — the  old  wine  and  oil  stores,  the  kitch- 
ens and  wood  cellars  of  the  convent,  now  black 
dens  avoided  by^the  cautious,  and  dark  even  at 
mid-day  because  of  the  rough  boarding-up  of  the 
windows.  There  was  a  stable  smell  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  Lucy  already  knew  that  one  of  the 
farther  dens  held  the  contadind's  donkey  and 
mule. 

"  Can  we  stay  here  ?"  she  said  to  herself,  half 
laughing,  half  doubtful. 

Then  she  lifted  the  heavy  iron  bar  that  closed 
the  old  double  door,  and  stepped  out  into  the 
court-yard  that  surrounded  the  convent,  half  of 
which  was  below  the  road  as  it  rapidly  descended 
from  the  village,  and  half  above  it. 

She  took  a  few  steps  to  the  right. 
396 


Exquisite  ! 

There  opened  out  before  her  a  little  cloister, 
with  double  shafts  carrying  Romanesque  arches  ; 
and  at  the  back  of  the  court,  the  chapel,  and  a 
tiny  bell-tower.  The  moon  shone  down  on  every 
line  and  moulding.  Under  its  light,  stucco  and 
brick  turned  to  ivory  and  silver.  There  was  an 
absolute  silence,  an  absolute  purity  of  air ;  and 
over  all  the  magic  of  beauty  and  of  night.  Lucy 
thought  of  the  ruined  frescoes  in  the  disused 
chapel,  of  the  faces  of  saints  and  angels  looking 
out  into  the  stillness. 

Then  she  mounted  some  steps  to  the  road,  and 
turned  downward  towards  the  forest  that  crept 
up  round  them  on  all  sides. 

Ah  !  was  there  yet  another  portion  of  the  con- 
vent ? —  a  wing  running  at  right  angles  to  the 
main  building  in  which  they  were  established, 
and  containing  some  habitable  rooms?  In  the 
farthest  window  of  all  was  a  light,  and  a  figure 
moving  across  it.  A  tall  black  figure — surely  a 
priest  ?  Yes  ! — as  the  form  came  nearer  to  the 
window,  seen  from  the  back,  Lucy  perceived  dis- 
tinctly the  tonsured  head  and  the  soutane. 

How  strange  !  She  had  heard  nothing  from 
the  massaja  of  any  other  tenant.  And  this  tall 
gaunt  figure  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
little  smiling  parroco  she  had  seen  in  the  crowd. 

She  moved  on,  wondering. 

Oh,  these  woods  !  How  they  sank,  like  great 
resting  clouds  below  her,  to  the  shining  line  of 
the  river,  and  rose  again  on  the  farther  side! 
397 


They  were  oak  woods,  and  spoke  strangely  to 
Lucy  of  the  American  and  English  north.  Yet, 
as  she  came  nearer,  the  moon  shone  upon  delicate 
undergrowth  of  heath  and  arbutus,  that  chid  her 
fancy  back  to  the  "  Saturnian  land." 

And  beyond  all,  the  blue  mountains,  ethereally 
light,  like  dreams  on  the  horizon  ;  and  above  all 
the  radiant  serenity  of  the  sky. 

Ah  !  there  spoke  the  nightingales,  and  that 
same  melancholy  note  of  the  little  brown  owl 
which  used  to  haunt  the  olive-grounds  of  Mari- 
nata.  Lucy  held  her  breath.  The  tears  rushed 
into  her  eyes — tears  of  memory,  tears  of  longing. 

But  she  drove  them  back.  Standing  on  a  little 
cleared  space  beside  the  road  that  commanded 
the  whole  night  scene,  she  threw  herself  into  the 
emotion  and  poetry  which  could  be  yielded  to 
without  remorse,  without  any  unnerving  of  the 
will.  How  far,  far  she  was  from  Uncle  Ben,  and 
that  shingled  house  in  Vermont !  It  was  near 
midsummer,  and  all  the  English  and  Americans 
had  fled  from  this  Southern  Italy.  Italy  was  at 
home,  and  at  ease  in  her  own  house,  living  her 
own  rich  immemorial  life,  knowing  and  thinking 
nothing  of  the  foreigner.  Nor  indeed  on  those 
uplands  and  in  those  woods  had  she  ever  thought 
of  him  ;  though  below  in  the  valley  ran  the  old 
coach -road  from  Florence  to  Rome,  on  which 
Goethe  and  Winckelmann  had  journeyed  to  the 
Eternal  City.  Lucy  felt  as  though,  but  yester- 
day a  tourist  and  stranger,  she  had  now  crept 
like  a  child  into  the  family  circle.  Nay,  she  had 
398 


raised  a  corner  of  Italy's  mantle,  and  drawn  close 
to  the  warm  breast  of  one  of  the  great  mother- 
lands of  the  world. 

Ah  !  but  feeling  sweeps  fast  and  far,  do  what 
we  will.  Soon  she  was  struggling  out  of  her 
depth.  These  weeks  of  rushing  experience  had 
been  loosening  soul  and  tongue.  To-night,  how 
she  could  have  talked  of  these  things  to  one  now 
parted  from  her,  perhaps  forever!  How  he  would 
have  listened  to  her  —  impatiently  often  !  How 
he  would  have  mocked  and  rent  her  !  But  then 
the  quick  softening — and  the  beautiful  kindling 
eye  —  the  dogmatism  at  once  imperative  and 
sweet  —  the  tyranny  that  a  woman  might  both 
fight  and  love ! 

Yet  how  painful  was  the  thought  of  Manisty ! 
She  was  ashamed — humiliated.  Their  flight  as- 
sumed as  a  certainty  what  after  all,  let  Eleanor 
say  what  she  would,  he  had  never,  never  said  to 
her — what  she  had  no  clear  authority  to  believe. 
Where  was  he  ?  What  was  he  thinking  ?  For  a 
moment,  her  heart  fluttered  towards  him  like  a 
homing  bird. 

Then  in  a  sharp  and  stern  reaction  she  rebuked, 
she  chastened  herself.  Standing  there  in  the 
night,  above  the  forests,  looking  over  to  the  dim 
white  cliffs  on  the  side  of  Monte  Amiata,  she  felt 
herself,  in  this  strange  and  beautiful  land,  brought 
face  to  face  with  calls  of  the  spirit,  with  deep 
voices  of  admonition  and  pity  that  rose  from  her 
own  inmost  being. 

With  a  long  sigh,  like  one  that  lifts  a  weight 
399 


she  raised  her  young  arms  above  her  head,  and 
then  brought  her  hands  down  slowly  upon  her 
eyes,  shutting  out  sight  and  sense.  There  was  a 
murmur — 

"Mother! — darling  mother! — if  you  were  just 
here— for  one  hour " 

She  gathered  up  the  forces  of  the  soul. 

"  So  help  me  God  !"  she  said.  And  then  she 
started,  perceiving  into  what  formula  she  had 
slipped,  unwittingly. 

She  moved  on  a  few  paces  down  the  road, 
meaning  just  to  peep  into  the  woods  and  their 
scented  loneliness.  The  night  was  so  lovely  she 
was  loath  to  leave  it. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  a  point  of  light 
in  front,  and  the  smell  of  tobacco. 

A  man  rose  from  the  way -side.  Lucy  stayed  her 
foot,  and  was  about  to  retreat  swiftly  when  she 
heard  a  cheerful— 

"Buona  sera,  Signorina !"  She  recognized  a 
voice  of  the  afternoon.  It  was  the  handsome  Cara- 
biniere.     Lucy  advanced  with  alacrity, 

"  I  came  out  because  it  was  so  fine,"  she  said. 
"  Are  you  on  duty  still  ?  Where  is  your  com- 
panion ?" 

He  smiled,  and  pointed  to  the  wood.  *'  We 
have  a  hut  there.  First  Ruggieri  sleeps— then 
I  sleep.  We  don't  often  come  this  way  ;  but 
when  there  are  forestieri,  then  we  must  look 
out." 

*'  But  there  are  no  brigands  here  ?" 
4cx> 


He  showed  his  white  teeth.  "I  shot  two  once 
with  this  gun,"  he  said,  producing  it. 

^'  But  not  here  ?"  she  said,  startled. 

"  No — but  beyond  the  mountains — over  there 
— in  Maremma."  He  waved  his  hand  vaguely 
towards  the  west.  Then  he  shook  his  head.  "Bad 
country — bad  people— in  Maremma." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  If 
there  is  anything  bad  here,  you  say  it  comes  from 
Maremma.  When  our  harness  broke  this  after- 
noon our  driver  said,  ''Che  vuole !  It  was  made 
in  Maremma  !* — Tell  me — who  lives  in  that  part 
of  the  convent — over  there  ?" 

And,  turning  back,  she  pointed  to  the  distant 
window  and  the  light. 

The  man  spat  upon  the  road  without  reply- 
ing. After  replenishing  his  pipe  he  said  slowly: 
"That,  Signorina,  is  3.  foresttere,  too." 

'•  A  priest — isn't  it  ?" 

"  A  priest — and  not  a  priest,"  said  the  man  after 
another  pause. 

Then  he  laughed  with  the  sudden  insouciance  of 
the  Italian. 

"A  priest  that  doesn't  say  his  mass  I — that's  a 
queer  sort  of  priest— isn't  it  ?" 

'*  I  don't  understand,'*  said  Lucy. 

"  Perdto^  what  does  it  matter  ?"  said  the  man, 
laughing.  "The  people  here  wouldn't  trouble 
their  heads,  only — But  you  understand,  Signori- 
na'?—he  dropped  his  voice  a  little — "the  priests 
have  much  power — molto,  molto  !  Don  Teodoro, 
the  parroco  there, — it  was  he  founded  the  cassa 
401 


rurale.  If  a  contadino  wants  some  money  for  his 
seed-corn — or  to  marry  his  daughter — or  to  buy 
himself  a  new  team  of  oxen — he  must  go  to  the 
parroco.  Since  these  new  banks  began,  it  is  the 
priests  have  the  money — capisce  ?  If  you  want  it 
you  must  ask  them!  So  you  understand,  Signo- 
rina,  it  doesn't  profit  to  fall  out  with  them.    You 

must  love  their  friends,  and '*     His  grin  and 

gesture  finished  the  sentenca 

"  But  what's  the  matter?"  said  Lucy,  wonder- 
ing. "Has  he  committed  any  crime?"  And  she 
looked  curiously  at  the  figure  in  the  convent  win- 
dow. 

**  £l  un  prete  spretato,  Signorinay 

"  Spretato  T'  (unpriested  —  unfrocked).  The 
word  was  unfamiliar  to  her.  She  frowned  over  it. 

"  Scomuniato  r  said  the  Carabiniere,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Excommunicated  ?"  She  felt  a  thrill  of  pity, 
mingled  with  a  vague  horror. 

"  Why  ?— what  has  he  done  ?" 

The  Carabiniere  laughed  again.  The  laugh  was 
odious,  but  she  was  already  acquainted  with  that 
strange  instinct  of  the  lower-class  Italian  which 
leads  him  to  make  mock  of  calamity.  He  has 
passion,  but  no  sentiment;  he  instinctively  hates 
the  pathetic. 

"  Chi  sa,  Signorina  ?  He  seems  a  quiet  old 
man.  We  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  him  ;  he  won't 
do  any  harm.  He  used  to  give  the  children 
confetti,  but  the  mothers  have  forbidden  them 
tQ  take  them.  Gianni  there  "—he  pointed  tQ 
403 


the  convent,  and  Lucy  understood  that  he  re- 
ferred to  the  contadino — "  Gianni  went  to  Don 
Teodoro,  and  asked  if  he  should  turn  him  out. 
But  Don  Teodoro  wouldn't  say  Yes  or  No. 
He  pays  well,  but  the  village  want  him  to  go. 
They  say  he  will  bring  them  ill-luck  with  their 
harvest." 

"  And  the  Padre  parroco  ?  Does  he  not  speak 
to  him  ?" 

Antonio  laughed. 

"  When  Don  Teodoro  passes  him  on  the  road 
he  doesn't  see  him — capisce,  Signorina?  And  so 
with  all  the  other  priests.  When  he  comes  by 
they  have  no  eyes.     The  bishop  sent  the  word." 

''And  everybody  here  does  what  the  priests 
tell  them  ?" 

Lucy's  tone  expressed  that  instinctive  resent- 
ment which  the  Puritan  feels  against  a  ruling  and 
dominant  Catholicism. 

Antonio  laughed  again,  but  a  little  stupidly. 
It  was  the  laugh  of  a  man  who  knows  that  it  is 
not  worth  while  even  to  begin  to  explain  certain 
matters  to  a  stranger. 

"  They  understand  their  business — i  preti  r — 
was  all  he  would  say.  Then— " J/<3:  .^ — they  are 
rich— the  priests  !  All  these  last  years — so  many 
banks — so  many  casse — so  many  societd  J  That 
holds  the  people  better  than  prayers." 

When  Lucy  turned  homeward  she  found  her- 
self watching  the  light  in  the  far  window  with 
an  eager  attention.    A  priest  in  disgrace  ?— and  a 
403 


foreigner?  What  could  he  be  hiding  here  for? 
— in  this  remote  corner  of  a  district  which,  as 
they  had  been  already  told  at  Orvieto,  was  Cath- 
olic, fino  al  fanatismo  ? 

The  morning  rose,  fresh  and  glorious,  over 
mountain  and  forest. 

Eleanor  watched  the  streaks  of  light  that  pen- 
etrated through  the  wooden  sun-shutters  grow 
brighter  and  brighter  on  the  whitewashed  wall. 
She  was  weary  of  herself,  weary  of  the  night. 
The  old  building  was  full  of  strange  sounds — of 
murmurs  and  resonances,  of  slight  creepings  and 
patterings,  that  tried  the  nerves.  Her  room 
communicated  with  Lucy's,  and  their  doors  were 
provided  with  bolts,  the  newness  of  which,  per- 
haps, testified  to  the  fears  of  other  summer  ten- 
ants before  them.  Nevertheless,  Eleanor  had 
been  a  prey  to  starts  and  terrors,  and  her  night 
had  passed  in  a  bitter  mingling  of  moral  strife 
and  physical  discomfort. 

Seven  o'clock  striking  from  the  village  church. 
She  slipped  to  her  feet.  Ready  to  her  hand  lay 
one  of  the  soft  and  elegant  wrappers — fresh,  not 
long  ago,  from  Paris — as  to  which  Lucy  had  often 
silently  wondered  how  any  one  could  think  it 
right  to  spend  so  much  money  on  such  things. 

Eleanor,  of  course,  was  not  conscious  of  the 
smallest  reproach  in  the  matter.  Dainty  and 
costly  dress  was  second  nature  to  her  ;  she  never 
thought  about  it.  But  this  morning  as  she  first 
took  up  the  elaborate  silken  thing,  to  which  pale 
404 


girls  in  hot  Parisian  work-rooms  had  given  so 
much  labor  of  hand  and  head,  and  then  caught 
sight  of  her  own  face  and  shoulders  in  the  cracked 
glass  upon  the  wall,  she  was  seized  with  certaiil 
ghastly  perceptions  that  held  her  there  motion- 
less in  the  semi-darkness,  shivering  amid  the  del- 
icate lace  and  muslin  which  enwrapped  her. 
Finished ! — for  her — all  the  small  feminine  joys. 
Was  there  one  of  her  dresses  that  did  not  in 
some  way  speak  to  her  of  Manisty? — that  had 
hot  been  secretly  planned  with  a  vietv  to  tastes 
^nd  preferences  she  had  come  to  know  hardly 
less  intimately  than  her  own  ? 

She  thought  of  the  face  of  the  Orvieto  doctor, 
of  certain  words  that  she  had  stopped  on  his  lips 
because  she  was  afraid  to  hear  them.  A  sudden 
terror  of  death  —  of  the  desolate,  desolate  end 
swept  upon  her.  To  die,  with  this  cry  of  the 
heart  unspent,  untold  forever !  Unloved,  unsat- 
isfied, unrewarded — she  whose  whole  nature  gave 
itself — gave  itself  perpetually,  as  a  wave  breaks 
upon  a  barren  shore.  How  can  any  God  send 
hiirtian  beings  into  the  world  for  such  a  lot? 
There  can  be  no  God.  But  how  is  the  riddle 
easier,  for  thinking  ilim  away? 

When  at  last  she  rose,  it  was  to  make  quietly 
for  the  door  opening  oil  the  loggia. 

Still  there,  this  radiant  marvel  of  the  world ! — 
this  pageant  of  rock  and  stream  and  forest,  this 
pomp  of  shining  cloud,  this  silky  shimmer  of  the 
wheat,  this  sparkle  of  flowers  in  the  grass ;  while 
human  hearts  break,  and  human  lives  fail,  and 
405 


the  graveyard  on  the  hill  yonder  packs  closer  and 
closer  its  rows  of  metal  crosses  and  wreaths ! 

Suddenly,  from  a  patch  of  hay-field  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  road,  she  heard  a  voice  sing- 
ing. A  young  man,  tall  and  well  made,  was  mow- 
ing in  a  corner  of  the  field.  The  swathes  fell 
fast  before  him  ;  every  movement  spoke  of  an 
assured  rejoicing  strength.  He  sang  with  the 
sharp  stridency  which  is  the  rule  in  Italy — the 
words  clear,  the  sounds  nasal. 

Gradually  Eleanor  made  out  that  the  song  was 
the  farewell  of  a  maiden  to  her  lover  who  is  go- 
ing for  winter  work  to  the  Maremma. 

The  laborers  go  to  Maremma — 
Oh!  'tis  long  till  the  days  of  June, 

And  my  heart  is  all  in  a  flutter 
Alone  here,  under  the  moon. 

O  moon! — all  this  anguish  and  sorrow! 

Thou  know'st  why  I  suffer  so — 
Oh!  send  him  me  back  from   Maremma, 
Where  he  goes,  and  I  must  not  go! 

The  man  sang  the  little  song  carelessly,  com- 
monly, without  a  thought  of  the  words,  interrupt- 
ing himself  every  now  and  then  to  sharpen  his 
scythe,  and  then  beginning  again.  To  Eleanor 
it  seemed  the  natural  voice  of  the  morning;  one 
more  echo  of  the  cry  of  universal  parting,  now 
for  a  day,  now  for  a  season,  now  forever,  which 
fills  the  world. 

She  was  too  restless  to  enjoy  the  loggia  and 
406 


the  view,  too  restless  to  go  back  to  bed.  She 
pushed  back  the  door  between  her  and  Lucy,  only 
to  see  that  Lucy  was  still  fast  asleep.  But  there 
were  voices  and  steps  down-stairs.  The  farm 
people  had  been  abroad  for  hours. 

She  made  a  preliminary  toilette,  took  her  hat, 
and  stole  down-stairs.  As  she  opened  the  outer 
door  the  children  caught  sight  of  her  and  came 
crowding  round,  large-eyed,  their  fingers  in  their 
mouths.  She  turned  towards  the  chapel  and  the 
little  cloister  that  she  remembered.  The  children 
gave  a  shout  and  swooped  back  into  the  convent. 
And  when  she  reached  the  chapel  door,  there 
they  were  on  her  skirts  again,  a  big  boy  bran- 
dishing the  key. 

Eleanor  took  it  and  parleyed  with  them.  They 
were  to  go  away  and  leave  her  alone — quite  alone. 
Then  when  she  came  back  they  should  have  soldi. 
The  children  nodded  shrewdly,  withdrew  in  a 
swarm  to  the  corner  of  the  cloister,  and  watched 
events. 

Eleanor  entered.  From  some  high  lunette 
windows  the  cool  early  sunlight  came  creeping 
and  playing  into  the  little  whitewashed  place. 
On  either  hand  two  cinque-cento  frescoes  had 
been  rescued  from  the  whitewash.  They  shone 
like  delicate  flowers  on  the  rough,  yellowish-white 
of  the  walls;  on  one  side  a  martyrdom  of  St. 
Catharine,  on  the  other  a  Crucifixion.  Their  pale 
blues  and  lilacs,  their  sharp  pure  greens  and  thin 
crimsons,  made  subtle  harmony  with  the  general 
lightness  and  cleanness  of  the  abandoned  chapel. 
407 


A  poor  little  altar  with  a  few  tawdry  furnishings 
at  the  farther  end,  a  confessional  box  falling  to 
pieces  with  age,  and  a  few  chairs — these  Were  all 
that  it  contained  besides. 

Eleanor  sank  kneeling  beside  one  of  the  chairs. 
As  she  looked  round  her,  physical  weakness  and 
the  concentration  of  all  thought  on  one  subject 
and  one  person  made  her  for  the  moment  the 
victim  of  an  illusion  so  strong  that  it  was  almost 
an  "apparition  of  the  living." 

Manisty  stood  before  her,  in  the  rough  tweed 
suit  he  had  worn  in  November,  one  hand,  hold- 
ing his  hat,  upon  his  hip,  his  curly  head  thrown 
back,  his  eyes  just  turning  from  the  picture  to 
meet  hers;  eyes  always  eagerly  confident,  whether 
their  owner  pronounced  on  the  affinities  of  a  pict- 
ure or  the  fate  of  a  country. 

"School  of  Pintu'ricchio  certainly! — but  local 
work.  Same  hand — don't  you  think  so? — as  in 
that  smaller  chapel  in  the  cathedral.  Eleanor! 
you  remember  ?" 

She  gave  a  gasp,  and  hid  her  face,  shaking. 
Was  this  haunting  of  eye  and  ear  to  pursue  her 
now  henceforward  ?  Was  the  passage  of  Manisty^s 
being  through  the  world  to  be — for  her — inefface- 
able?— so  that  earth  and  air  retained  the  impress 
of  his  form  and  voice,  and  only  her  tortured  heart 
and  sense  were  needed  to  make  the  phantom  live 
and  walk  and  speak  again? 

She  began  to  pray — brokenly  and  desperate- 
ly, ias  she  had  often  prayed  during  the  last  few 
weeks.  It  was  a  passionate  throwing  of  the  will 
.108 


against  a  fate,  cruel,  unjust,  intolerable  ;  a  means 
not  to  self-renunciation,  but  to  a  self-assertion 
which  was  in  her  like  madness,  so  foreign  was  it 
to  all  the  habits  of  the  soul. 

**  That  he  should  make  use  of  me  to  the  last 
moment,  then  fling  me  to  the  winds  ! — that  J 
shpuld  just  make  room,  and  help  him  to  his  goal 
— and  then  die  meekly — out  of  the  way — No  ! 
He  too  shall  suffer ! — and  he  shall  know  that  it 
is  Eleanor  who  exacts  it ! — Eleanor  who  bars  the 
way  !" 

And  in  the  very  depths  of  consciousness  there 
emerged  the  strange  and  bitter  recognition  that 
from  the  beginning  she  had  allowed  him  to  }iol4 
her  cheaply ;  that  she  had  been  content,  far,  far 
too  content,  with  what  he  chose  to  give ;  that  if 
she  had  -claimed  more,  been  less  delicate,  less 
exquisite  in  loving,  he  might  have  feared  and 
regarded  her  more. 

She  heard  the  chapel  door  open.  But  at  the 
same  moment  she  became  aware  that  her  face 
was  bathed  in  tears,  and  she  did  not  dare  to  look 
round.  She  drew  down  her  veil,  and  cornpose4 
herself  as  she  best  could. 

The  person  behind,  apparently,  also  knelt  down. 
The  tread  and  movements  were  those  of  a  heavy 
man — some  countryman,  she  supposed. 

But  his  neighborhood  was  unwelcome,  and  the 
chapel  ceased  to  be  a  place  of  refuge  where  feel- 
ing might  have  its  way.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
rose  and  turned  towards  the  door. 

ghe  gave  a  little  cry.  The  man  kneeling  at 
409 


the  back  of  the  chapel  rose  in  astonishment  and 
came  towards  her. 

"  Madame  !" 

"  Father  Benecke  I  you  here,"  said  Eleanor,  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  for  support — so  weak  was 
she,  and  so  startling  was  this  sudden  apparition 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  last  seen  on  the 
threshold  of  the  glass  passage  at  Marinata,  bare- 
ly a  fortnight  before. 

"I  fear,  madame,  that  I  intrude  upon  you," 
said  the  old  priest,  staring  at  her  with  embar- 
rassment.    "  I  will  retire." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Eleanor,  putting  out  her  hand, 
with  some  recovery  of  her  normal  voice  and 
smile.  "  It  was  only  so — surprising  ;  so — unex- 
pected. Who  could  have  thought  of  finding  you 
here.  Father?" 

The  priest  did  not  reply.  They  left  the  chapel 
together.  The  knot  of  waiting  children  in  the 
cloister^  as  soon  as  they  saw  Eleanor,  raised  a 
shout  of  glee,  and  began  to  run  towards  her. 
But  the  moment  they  perceived  her  companion, 
they  stopped  dead. 

Their  little  faces  darkened,  stiffened,  their 
black  eyes  shone  with  malice.  Then  suddenly 
the  boys  swooped  on  the  pebbles  of  the  court- 
yard, and  with  cries  of  "  Bestia  ! — bestia  r  they 
flung  them  at  the  priest  over  their  shoulders,  as 
they  all  fled  helter-skelter,  the  brothers  dragging 
off  the  sisters,  the  big  ones  the  little  ones,  out  of 
sight. 

"  Horrid  little  imps !"  cried  Eleanor  in  indig- 
410 


nation.  "  What  is  the  matter  with  them  ?  1 
promised  them  some  soldi.  Did  they  hit  you, 
Father  ?" 

She  paused,  arrested  by  the  priest's  face. 

"  They  ?"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  Did  you  mean 
the  children  ?    Oh  !  no,  they  did  no  harm." 

What  had  happened  to  him  since  they  met 
last  at  the  villa  ?  No  doubt  he  had  been  in  con- 
flict with  his  superiors  and  his  Church.  Was  he 
already  suspended  ? — excommunicated  ?  But  he 
still  wore  the  soutane? 

Then  panic  for  herself  swept  in  upon  and 
silenced  all  else.  All  was  over  with  their  plans. 
Father  Benecke  either  was,  or  might  at  any  mo- 
ment be,  in  communication  with  Manisty.  Alas, 
alas  ! — what  ill-luck  ! 

They  walked  together  to  the  road — Eleanor 
first  imagining,  then  rejecting  one  sentence  after 
another.     At  last  she  said,  a  little  piteously  : 

"  It  is  so  strange,  Father — that  you  should  be 
here !" 

The  priest  did  not  answer  immediately.  He 
walked  with  a  curiously  uncertain  gait.  Eleanor 
noticed  that  his  soutane  was  dusty  and  torn,  and 
that  he  was  unshaven.  The  peculiar  and  touch- 
ing charm  that  had  once  arisen  from  the  contrast 
between  the  large-limbed  strength  which  he  in- 
herited from  a  race  of  Suabian  peasants,  and  an 
extraordinary  delicacy  of  feature  and  skin,  a 
childish  brightness  and  sweetness  in  the  eyes, 
had  suffered  eclipse.  He  was  dulled  and  broken. 
One  might  have  said  almost  that  he  had  become 
411 


a  mere  ungainly,  ill-kept  old  man,  red-eyed  for 
lack  of  sleep,  and  disorganized  by  some  bitter 
distress. 

"  You  remember  —  what  I  told  you  and  Mr. 
Manisty,  at  Marinata?"  he  said  at  last,  with  dif- 
ficulty. 

"  Perfectly.     You  withdrew  your  letter  ?" 

"  I  withdrew  it.  Then  I  came  down  here.  I 
have  an  old  friend — a  canon  of  Orvieto.  He 
told  me  once  of  this  place." 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  return  of 
all  her  natural  kindness  and  compassion. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  gone  through  a  great 
deal,  Father,"  she  said,  gravely. 

The  priest  stood  still.  His  hand  shook  upon 
his  stick. 

"I  must  not  detain  you,  madame,"  he  said 
suddenly,  with  a  kind  of  tremulous  formality. 
"  You  will  be  wishing  to  return  to  your  apart- 
ment. I  heard  that  two  English  ladies  were 
expected — but  I  never  thought " 

*'  How  could  you  ?"  said  Eleanor,  hurrie(}ly. 
"  I  am  not  in  any  hurry.  It  is  very  early  st^ill, 
Will  you  not  tell  me  more  of  what  has  happened 
to  you  ?  You  would  "  —  she  turned  av/ay  her 
head— "you  would  have  told  Mr.  Manisty?" 

"Ah!  Mr.  Manisty!"  said  the  priest,  with  a, 
long,  startled  sigh.     *'  I  trust  he  is  well,  madame  ?" 

Eleanor  flushed. 

"  I  believe  so.  He  and  Miss  Manisty  are  still 
at  Marinata.     Father  Benecke  !" 

"  Madame  ?" 

4?2 


Eleanor  turned  aside,  poking  at  the  stones  on 
the  road  with  her  parasol. 

"  You  would  do  me  a  kindness  if  for  the  pres- 
ent you  would  not  mention  my  being  here  to  any 
of  your  friends  in  Rome,  to — to  anybody,  in  fact. 
Last  autumn  I  happened  to  pass  by  this  place, 
and  thought  it  very  beautiful.  It  was  a  sudden 
determination  on  my  part  and  Miss  Foster's — you 
remember  the  American  lady  who  was  staying 
with  us  ? — to  come  here.  The  villa  was  getting 
very  hot,  and — and  there  were  other  reasons. 
And  now  we  wish  to  be  quite  alone  for  a  little 
while — to  be  in  retirement  even  from  our  friends. 
You  will,  I  am  sure,  respect  our  wish  ?" 

She  looked  up,  breathing  quickly.  All  her 
sudden  color  had  gone.  Her  anxiety  and  dis- 
composure were  very  evident.     The  priest  bowed. 

"  I  will  be  discreet,  madame,"  he  said,  with  the 
natural  dignity  of  his  calling.  "  May  I  ask  you 
to  excuse  me  ?  I  have  to  walk  into  Selvapen- 
dente  to  fetch  a  letter." 

He  took  off  his  flat  beaver  hat,  bowed  low  and 
departed,  swinging  along  at  a  great  pace.  Elea- 
nor felt  herself  repulsed.  She  hurried  back  to 
the  convent.  The  children  were  waiting  for  her 
at  the  door,  and  when  they  saw  that  she  was 
alone  they  took  their  soldi^  though  with  a  touch 
of  sulkiness. 

And  the  door  was  opened  to  her  by  Liicy. 

"  Truant !"  said  the  girl  reproachfully,  throw- 
ing her  arm  round  Eleanor.  "As  if  you  ought 
to  go  out  without  your  coffee  !  But  it's  all  ready 
413 


for  you  on  the  loggia.     Where  have  you  been? 
And  why  ! — what's  the  matter  ?" 

Eleanor  told  the  news  as  they  mounted  to  their 
rooms. 

"Ah!  that  was  the  priest  I  saw  last  night!" 
cried  Lucy.  "  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you  of  my 
adventure.  Father  Benecke  !  How  very,  very 
strange  !  And  how  very  tiresome  !  It's  made 
you  look  so  tired." 

And  before  she  would  hear  a  word  more  Lucy 
had  put  the  elder  woman  into  her  chair  in  the 
deep  shade  of  the  loggia^  had  brought  coffee  and 
bread  and  fruit  from  the  little  table  she  herself 
had  helped  Cecco  to  arrange,  and  had  hovered 
round  till  Eleanor  had  taken  at  least  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  fraction  of  roll.  Then  she  brought 
her  own  coffee,  and  sat  down  on  the  rug  at  Elea- 
nor's feet. 

"  I  know  what  you're  thinking  about  !"  she 
said,  looking  up  with  her  sweet,  sudden  smile. 
"  You  want  to  go — right  away  !" 

"  Can  we  trust  him  ?"  said  Eleanor,  miserably. 
"Edward  doesn't  know  where  he  is,  —  but  he 
could  write  of  course  to  Edward  at  any  mo- 
ment." 

She  turned  away  her  face  fi"om  Lucy.  Any 
mention  of  Manisty's  name  dyed  it  with  painful 
color — the  shame  of  the  suppliant  living  on  the 
mercy  of  the  conqueror. 

"  He  might,"  said  Lucy,  thinking.     "  But  if  you 
asked  him?     No ;  I  don't  believe  he  would.    I  am 
sure  his  soul  is  beautiful — like  his  face." 
414 


'*  His  poor  face !  You  don't  know  how  changed 
he  is." 

"  Ah  !  the  Carabiniere  told  me  last  night.  He 
is  excommunicated,"  said  Lucy,  under  her  breath. 

And  she  repeated  her  conversation  with  the 
handsome  Antonio.  Eleanor  capped  it  with  the 
tale  of  the  children. 

"  It's  his  book,"  said  Lucy,  frowning.  "  What 
a  tyranny  !" 

They  were  both  silent.  Lucy  was  thinking  of 
the  drive  to  Nemi,  of  Manisty's  words  and  looks ; 
Eleanor  recalled  the  priest's  last  visit  to  the  villa 
and  that  secret  storm  of  feeling  which  had  over- 
taken her  as  she  bade  him  good-bye. 

But  when  Lucy  speculated  on  what  might 
have  happened,  Eleanor  hardly  responded.  She 
fell  into  a  dreamy  silence  from  which  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  rouse  her.  It  was  very  evident  to  Lucy 
that  Father  Benecke's  personal  plight  interested 
her  but  little.  Her  mind  could  not  give  it  room. 
What  absorbed  her  was  the  feverish  question  : 
Were  they  safe  any  longer  at  Torre  Amiata,  or 
must  they  strike  camp  and  go  farther  ? 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE  day  grew  very  hot,  and  Eleanor  Suf- 
fered visibly,  even  though  the  quality  of 
the  air  remained  throughout  pure  and 
fresh,  and  Lucy  in  the  shelter  of  the  broad  loggia 
felt  nothing  but  a  keen  physical  enjoyment  of 
the  glow  and  blaze  that  held  the  outer  world. 

After  their  mid-day  meal  Lucy  was  sitting  idly 
on  the  Outer  Wall  of  the  loggia  which  commanded 
the  bit  of  road  just  outside  the  convent,  when  she 
perceived  a  figure  mounting  the  hill. 

"  ts^ather  Benecke  !"  she  said  to  Eleanor.  "  What 
a  clirnb  for  him  in  this  heat !  Did  you  say  he  had 
^dne  to  Selvapendente  ?  Poor  old  man  !  —  how 
hot  and  tired  he  looks  !  —  ahd  with  that  heavy 
parcel  too  !" 

And  withdrawing  herself  a  little  out  of  sight 
she  watched  the  priest.  He  had  just  paused  in  a 
last  patch  of  shade  to  take  breath  after  the  long 
ascent.  Depositing  the  bundle  he  had  been  car- 
rying on  a  way-side  stone,  he  took  out  his  large 
colored  handkerchief  and  mopped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  face  with  long  sighs  of  exhaustion. 
Then  with  his  hands  on  his  sides  he  looked  round 
416 


him.  Opposite  to  him  was  a  little  shrine,  with 
the  liSual  rude  fresco  and  enthroned  Madonna 
behihd  a  grating.  The  priest  walked  over  to  it, 
and  knelt  down. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  and  took  up  his 
pSLTtel.  As  he  entered  the  outer  gate  of  the  con- 
vent, Lucy  could  see  him  glancing  nervously 
from  side  to  side.  But  it  was  the  hour  of  siesta 
and  of  quiet.  His  tormentors  of  the  morning 
were  all  under  cover. 

The  parcel  that  he  carried  had  partly  broken 
out  of  its  wrappings  during  the  long  walk,  and 
Lucy  could  see  that  it  contained  clothes  of  some 
kind. 

"  Poor  Father !"  she  said  again  to  Eleanor. 
"Couldn't  he  have  got  some  boy  to  carry  that 
for  hiin?  How  I  should  like  to  rest  him  and 
give  him  some  coffee  ?  Shall  I  send  Cecco  to 
ask  him  to  come  here  ?" 

Eleanor  shook  her  head. 

"  Better  not.  He  wouldn't  come.  We  shall 
h^ve  to  tame  him  like  a  bird." 

The  hours  passed  on.  At  last  the  western  suti 
began  to  creep  round  into  the  loggia.  The  empty 
cells  on  the  eastern  side  were  now  cool,  but  they 
looked  upon  the  inner  cloistered  court  which  Was 
alive  with  playing  children,  and  all  the  farm  life. 
Eleanor  shrank  both  from  noise  and  spectators. 
Yet  she  grew  visibly  more  tired  and  restless,  and 
Lucy  went  out  to  recotinoitre.  She  came  back 
recommending  a  descent  into  the  forest. 

So  they  braved  a  few  yards  of  sun -scorched 
417 


road  and  plunged  into  a  little  right-hand  track, 
which  led  downwaird  through  a  thick  under- 
growth of  heath  and  arbutus  towards  what 
seemed  the  cool  heart  of  the  woods. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  small  gate,  and  be- 
yond appeared  a  broad,  well-kept  path,  winding 
in  zigzags  along  the  forest-covered  side  of  the 
hill. 

"  This  must  be  private,"  said  Eleanor,  looking 
at  the  gate  in  some  doubt.  *'  And  there  you  see 
is  the  Palazzo  Guerrini." 

She  pointed.  Above  them  through  a  gap  in 
the  trees  showed  the  great  yellow  pile  on  the 
edge  of  the  plateau,  the  forest  stretching  steeply 
up  to  it  and  enveloping  it  from  below. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  stop  us,"  said  Lucy. 
"  They  won't  turn  us  out,  if  it  is  theirs.  I  can't 
have  you  go  through  that  sun  again." 

And  she  pressed  on,  looking  for  shade  and  rest. 

But  soon  she  stopped,  with  a  little  cry,  and 
t'ney  both  stood  looking  in  astonishment  at  the 
strange  and  lovely  thing  upon  which  they  had 
stumbled  unawares. 

"  I  know  !"  cried  Lucy.  "  The  woman  at  the 
convent  tried  to  tell  me — and  I  couldn't  under- 
stand. She  said  we  must  see  the  'Sassetto' — 
that  it  was  a  wonder  —  and  all  the  strangers 
thought  so.     And  it  is  a  wonder  !     And  so  cool !" 

Down  from  the  very  brow  of  the  hill,  m  an  age 

before  man  was  born,  the  giant  force  of  some 

primeval  convulsion  had  flung  a  lava  torrent  of 

molten  rock  to  the  bed  of  the  Paglia.     And  there 

418 


still  was  the  torrent — a  rock-stream  composed  of 
huge  blocks  of  basalt — flowing  in  one  vast  steep 
fall,  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  wide,  through  the 
forest  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  hill. 

And  very  grim  and  stern  would  that  rock-river 
have  been  but  for  Italy,  and  the  powers  of  the 
Italian  soil.  But  the  forest  and  its  lovely  under- 
growths,  its  heaths  and  creepers,  its  ferns  and 
periwinkles,  its  lichen  and  mosses  had  thrown 
themselves  on  the  frozen  lava,  had  decked  and 
softened  its  wild  shapes,  had  reared  oaks  and 
pines  amid  the  clefts  of  basalt,  and  planted  all 
the  crannies  below  with  lighter,  featherier  green, 
till  in  the  dim  forest  light  all  that  had  once  been 
terror  had  softened  into  grace,  and  Nature  her- 
self had  turned  her  freak  to  poetry. 

And  throughout  the  Sassetto  there  reigned 
a  peculiar  and  delicious  coolness  —  the  blended 
breath  of  mountain  and  forest.  The  smooth 
path  that  Eleanor  and  Lucy  had  been  following 
wound  in  and  out  among  the  strange  rock-masses, 
bearing  the  signs  of  having  been  made  at  great 
cost  and  difficulty.  Soon,  also,  benches  of  gray 
stone  began  to  mark  the  course  of  it  at  frequent 
intervals. 

"  We  must  live  here  !"  cried  Lucy  in  enchant- 
ment. "Let  me  spread  the  shawl  for  you — 
there!  —  just  in  front  of  that  glimpse  of  the 
river." 

They  had  turned  a  corner  of  the  path.  Lucy, 
whose  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  blue  distance  tow- 
ards Orvieto,  heard  a  hurried  word  from  Eleanor, 
419 


looked  round,  and  saw  Father  Benecke  just  rising 
from  a  seat  in  front. 

A  shock  ran  through  her.  The  priest  stood 
hesitating  and  miserable  before  them,  a  hot  color 
suffusing  his  hollow  cheeks.  Lucy  saw  that  he 
was  ho  longer  in  clerical  dress.  He  wore  a  gray- 
alpaca  suit,  and  a  hat  of  fine  Leghorn  straw  with 
a  broad  black  ribbon.  Both  ladies  almost  feared 
to  speak  to  hini. 

Then  Lucy  ran  forward,  her  Cheeks  too  a  bright 
red,  her  eyes  wet  and  sparkling.  **  How  do  you 
do.  Father  Benecke  ?  You  won't  remember  me, 
but  I  was  just  introduced  to  you  that  day  at  lunch- 
eon^— don't  you  remember — on  the  Aventine  ?" 

The  priest  took  her  offered  hand,  and  looked  at 
her  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes — I  remember — you  were  with  Miss  Man- 
isty." 

"  I  wish  you  had  asked  me  to  come  with  you 
this  morning,"  cried  the  girl  suddenly.  "  I'd  have 
helped  you  carry  that  parcel  Up  the  hill.  It  was 
too  much  for  you  in  the  heat." 

Her  face  expressed  the  sweetest,  most  passion- 
ate sympathy,  the  indignant  homage  of  youth  to 
old  age  unjustly  wounded  and  forsaken.  Elea- 
nor was  no  less  surprised  than  Father  Benecke. 
Was  this  the  stiff,  the  reticent  Lucy  ? 

The  priest  struggled  for  composure,  and  smiled 
as  he  withdrew  his  hand. 

"You  would  have  found  it  a  long  way,  Signo- 
rina.    I  tried  to  get  a  boy  at  Selvapendente,  but 
no  on^  would  serve  me." 
420 


He  paused  a  moment,  then  resumed  speaking 
with  a  sort  of  passionate  reluctance,  his  eyes 
upon  the  ground. 

**  I  am  a  suspended  priest — and  the  Bishop  of 
Orvieto  has  notified  the  fact  to  his  clergy.  The 
news  was  soon  known  through  the  whole  district. 
And  now  it  seems  the  people  hate  me.  They 
will  do  nothing  for  me.  Nay,  if  they  could,  they 
would  willingly  do  me  an  injury." 

The  flush  had  died  out  of  the  old  cheeks.  He 
stood  bareheaded  before  them,  the  tonsure  show- 
ing plainly  amid  his  still  thick  white  locks — the 
delicate  face  and  hair,  like  a  study  in  ivory  and 
silver,  thrown  out  against  the  deep  shadows  of 
the  Sassetto. 

"Father,  won't  you  sit  down  and  tell  me  about 
it  all?"  said  Eleanor  gently.  "You  didn't  send 
me  away,  you  know — the  other  day — at  the  villa." 

The  priest  sighed  and  hesitated.  "I  don't 
know,  madame,  why  I  should  trouble  you  with 
my  poor  story." 

"  It  would  not  trouble  me.  Besides,  I  know  so 
much  of  it  already." 

She  pointed  to  the  bench  he  had  just  left. 

"  And  I,"  said  Lucy,  "  will  go  and  fetch  a  book 
I  left  in  the  loggia.  Father  Benecke,  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  is  not  strong.  She  has  walked  more  than 
enough.  Will  you  kindly  make  her  rest  while  I 
am  gone  ?" 

She  fixed  upon  him  her  kind  beseeching  eyes. 
The  sympathy,  the  homage  of  the  two  women 
enveloped  the  old  man.  His  brow  cleared  a  little. 
421 


She  sped  down  the  winding  path,  aglow  with 
anger  and  pity.  The  priest's  crushed  strength 
and  humiliated  age  —  what  a  testimony  to  the 
power  of  that  tradition  for  which  Mr.  Manisty 
was  working  —  its  unmerciful  and  tyrannous 
power ! 

Why  such  a  penalty  for  a  "mildly  Liberal" 
book?  —  "a  fraction  of  the  truth"?  She  could 
hear  Manisty's  ironic  voice  on  that  by-gone  drive 
to  Nemi.  If  he  saw  his  friend  now,  would  he 
still  excuse — defend  ? — 

Her  thoughts  wrestled  with  him  hotly — then 
withdrew  themselves  in  haste,  and  fled  the  field. 

Meanwhile  Father  Benecke's  reserve  had  grad- 
ually yielded.  He  gave  Eleanor  a  long  troubled 
look,  and  said  at  last,  very  simply — 

"  Madame,  you  see  a  man  broken-hearted " 

He  stopped,  staring  desolately  at  the  ground. 
Eleanor  threw  in  a  few  gentle  words  and  phrases, 
and  presently  he  again  mustered  courage  to  speak: 

"  You  remember,  madame,  that  my  letter  was 
sent  to  the  *  Osservatore  Romano '  after  a  pledge 
had  been  given  to  me  that  only  the  bare  fact  of 
my  submission,  the  mere  formula  that  attends  the 
withdrawal  of  any  book  that  has  been  placed  upon 
the  Index,  should  be  given  to  the  public.  Then 
my  letter  appeared.  And  suddenly  it  all  became 
clear  to  me.  I  cannot  explain  it.  It  was  with 
me  as  it  was  with  St.  Paul  :  '  Placuit  Domino  ut 
revelaret  filium  suum  in  me  !'  My  heart  rose  up 
and  said  :  '  Thou  hast  betrayed  the  truth ' — 
422 


'Tradidisti  Sanctum  et  Justiim!'  After  I  left 
you  that  day  I  wrote  withdrawing  my  letter  and 
my  submission.  And  I  sent  a  copy  to  one  of  the 
Liberal  papers.  Then  my  heart  smote  me.  One 
of  the  cardinals  of  the  Holy  Office  had  treated 
me  with  much  kindness.  I  wrote  to  him — I  tried 
to  explain  what  I  had  done.  I  wrote  to  several 
other  persons  at  the  Vatican,  complaining  of  the 
manner  in  which  I  had  been  dealt  with.  No 
answer  —  not  one.  All  were  silent — as  though  I 
were  already  a  dead  man.  Then  I  tried  to  see 
one  or  two  of  my  old  friends.  But  no  one  would 
receive  me  ;  one  and  all  turned  me  from  their 
doors.  So  then  I  left  Rome.  But  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mind  to  go  home  till  I  knew  the 
worst.  You  understand,  madame,  that  I  have 
been  a  professor  of  theology  ;  that  my  faculty 
can  remove  me  —  that  my  faculty  obeys  the 
bishops,  and  the  bishops  obey  the  Holy  See.  I 
remembered  this  place  —  I  left  my  address  in 
Rome — and  I  came  down  here  to  wait.  Ah !  it 
was  not  long  !" 

He  drew  himself  up,  smiling  bitterly. 

"  Two  days  after  I  arrived  here  I  received  two 
letters  simultaneously — one  from  my  bishop,  the 
other  from  the  council  of  my  faculty — suspend- 
ing me  both  from  my  priestly  and  my  academi- 
cal functions.  By  the  next  post  arrived  a  com- 
munication from  the  bishop  of  this  diocese,  for- 
bidding me  the  sacraments." 

He  paused.  The  mere  recital  of  the  case  had 
brought  him  again  into  the  bewilderment  of  that 
423 


mental  anguish  he  had  gone  through.  Eleanor 
made  a  murmur  of  sympathy.  He  faced  her  with 
a  sudden  ardor. 

**  I  had  expected  it,  madame  ;  but  when  it  came 
I  was  stunned — I  was  bowed  to  the  earth.  A  few 
days  later,  I  received  an  anonymous  letter — from 
Orvieto,  I  think — reminding  me  that  a  priest  sus- 
pended a  divinis  has  no  right  to  the  soutane. 
*  Let  the  traitor,'  it  said,  *  give  up  the  uniform  he 
has  disgraced — let  him  at  least  have  the  decency 
to  do  that.'  In  my  trouble  I  had  not  thought  of 
it.  So  I  wrote  to  a  friend  in  Rome  to  send  me 
clothes." 

Eleanor's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  thought 
of  the  old  man  staggering  alone  up  the  dusty  hill 
under  his  unwelcome  burden. 

He  himself  was  looking  down  at  his  new  clothes 
in  a  kind  of  confusion.  Suddenly  he  said  under 
his  breath,  "And  for  what? — because  I  said 
what  every  educated  man  in  Europe  knows  to  be 
true?" 

"Father,"  said  Eleanor,  longing  to  express 
some  poor  word  of  comfort  and  respect,  "  you 
have  suffered  greatly — you  will  suffer — but  it  is 
not  for  yourself." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Madame,  you  see  a  man  dying  of  hunger  and 
thirst !  He  cannot  cheat  himself  with  fine  words. 
He  starves !" 

She  stared  at  him,  startled — partly  understand- 
ing. 

*'  For  forty-two  years,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  pa^ 
424 


thctic  voice,  "  have  I  received  my  Lord — day  af- 
ter -day — without  a  break.  And  now  *  they  have 
taken  Him  away— and  I  know  not  where  they 
have  laid  Him  !'  " 

Nothing  could  be  more  desolate  than  tone  and 
look.  Eleanor  understood.  vShe  had  seen  this 
hunger  before.  She  remembered  a  convent  in 
Rome  where  on  Good  Fridays  some  of  the  nuns 
were  often  ill  with  restlessness  and  longing,  be- 
cause for  twenty-four  hours  the  Sacrament  was 
not  upon  the  altar. 

Under  the  protection  of  her  reverent  and  pity- 
ing silence  he  gradually  recovered  himself.  With 
great  delicacy,  with  fine  and  chosen  words,  she 
began  to  try  and  comfort  him,  dwelling  on  his 
comradeship  with  all  the  martyrs  of  the  world, 
on  the  help  and  support  that  would  certainly 
gather  round  him,  on  the  new  friends  that  would 
replace  the  old.  And  as  she  talked  there  grew 
up  in  her  mind  an  envy  of  him  so  passionate,  so 
intense,  that  she  could  have  thrown  herself  at  his 
feet  there  and  then  and  opened  her  own  wretched 
heart  to  him. 

He,  tortured  by  the  martyrdom  of  thought,  by 
the  loss  of  Christian  fellowship  ! — She,  scorched 
and  consumed  by  a  passion  that  was  perfectly 
ready  to  feed  itself  on  the  pain  and  injury  of 
the  beloved,  or  the  innocent,  as  soon  as  its  own 
selfish  satisfaction  was  denied  it !  There  was 
a  moment  when  she  felt  herself  unworthy  to 
breathe  the  same  air  with  him. 

She  stared  at  him,  frowning  and  pale,  her  hand 
p  425 


clasping  her  breast,  lest  he  should  hear  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart. 

Then  the  hand  dropped  The  inner  tumult 
passed.  And  at  the  same  moment  the  sound  of 
steps  was  heard  approaching. 

Round  the  farther  corner  of  the  path  came 
two  ladies,  descending  towards  them.  They  were 
both  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  The  first  was 
an  old  woman,  powerfully  and  substantially  built. 
Her  gray  hair,  raised  in  a  sort  of  toupe  under 
her  plain  black  bonnet,  framed  a  broad  and 
noticeable  brow,  black  eyes,  and  other  features 
that  were  both  benevolent  and  strong.  She  was 
very  pale,  and  her  face  expressed  a  haunting 
and  prevailing  sorrow.  Eleanor  noticed  that  she 
was  walking  alone,  some  distance  ahead  of  her 
companion,  and  that  she  had  gathered  up  her 
black  skirts  in  an  ungloved  hand,  with  an  absent 
disregard  of  appearances.  Behind  her  came  a 
younger  lady,  a  sallow  and  pinched  woman  of 
about  thirty,  very  slight  and  tall. 

As  they  passed  Eleanor  and  her  companion,  the 
elder  woman  threw  a  lingering  glance  at  the 
strangers.  The  scrutiny  of  it  was  perhaps  some- 
what imperious.  The  younger  lady  walked  past 
stiffly  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Eleanor  and  Father  Benecke  were  naturally 
silent  as  they  passed.  Eleanor  had  just  begun 
to  speak  again  when  she  heard  herself  suddenly 
addressed  in  French. 

She  looked  up  in  astonishment  and  saw  that 
426 


the  old  lady  had  returned  and  was  standing  be- 
fore her. 

"  Madame — you  allow  me  to  address  you?" 

Eleanor  bowed. 

"  You  are  staying  at  Santa  Trinita,  I  believe!" 

"  Out,  madame.    We  arrived  yesterday." 

The  Contessa's  examining  eye,  whereof  the 
keenness  was  but  just  duly  chastened  by  cour- 
tesy, took  note  of  that  delicate  and  frail  refine- 
ment which  belonged  both  to  Eleanor's  person 
and  dress. 

**  I  fear,  madame,  you  are  but  roughly  housed 
at  the  Trinity.  They  are  not  accustomed  to  Eng- 
lish ladies.  If  my  daughter  and  I,  who  are  resi- 
dents here,  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  I  beg 
that  you  will  command  us." 

Eleanor  felt  nothing  but  an  angry  impatience. 
Could  even  this  remote  place  give  them  no  pri- 
vacy? She  answered  however  with  her  usual 
grace. 

"You  are  very  good,  madame.  I  suppose  that 
I  am  speaking  to  the  Contessa  Guerrini  ?" 

The  other  lady  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"We  brought  a  few  things  from  Orvieto — my 
friend  and  I,"  Eleanor  continued.  *'We  shall 
only  stay  a  few  weeks.  I  think  we  have  all  that 
is  necessary.  But  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for 
your  courtesy." 

Her  manner,   however,  expressed  no  effusion, 

hardly  even  adequate  response.     The  Contessa 

understood.    She  talked  for  a  few  moments,  gave 

a  few  directions  as  to  paths  and  points  of  view, 

427 


pointed  out  a  drive  beyond  Selvapendente  on  the 
mountain-side,  bowed  and  departed. 

Her  bow  did  not  include  the  priest.  But  he 
was  not  conscious  of  it.  While  the  ladies  talked, 
he  had  stood  apart,  holding  the  hat  that  seemed 
to  burn  him,  in  his  finger-tips,  his  eyes,  with  their 
vague  and  troubled  intensity,  expressing  only 
that  inward  vision  which  is  at  once  the  paradise 
and  the  torment  of  the  prophet. 

Three  weeks  passed  away.  Eleanor  had  said 
no  more  of  further  travelling.  For  some  days 
she  lived  in  terror,  startled  by  the  least  sound 
upon  the  road.  Then,  as  it  seemed  to  Lucy,  she 
resigned  herself  to  trust  in  Father  Benecke's  dis- 
cretion, influenced  also  no  doubt  by  the  sense  of 
her  own  physical  weakness,  and  piteous  need  of 
rest. 

And  now — in  these  first  days  of  July — their  risk 
was  no  doubt  much  less  than  it  had  been.  Man- 
isty  had  not  remembered  Torre  Amiata — another 
thorn  in  Eleanor's  heart  !  He  must  have  left 
Italy.  As  each  fresh  morning  dawned,  she  assured 
herself  drearily  that  they  were  safe  enough. 

As  for  the  heat,  the  sun  indeed  was  lord  and 
master  of  this  central  Italy.  Yet  on  the  high 
table-land  of  Torre  Amiata  the  temperature  was 
seldom  oppressive.  Lucy,  indeed,  soon  found 
out  from  her  friend  the  Carabiniere  that  while 
malaria  haunted  the  valley,  and  scourged  the 
region  of  Bolsena  to  the  south,  the  characteristic 
disease  of  their  upland  was  pneumonia,  caused 
428 


by  the  daily  ascent  of  the  laborers  from  the  hot 
slopes  below  to  the  sharp  coolness  of  the  night. 

No,  the  heat  was  not  overwhelming  Yet  Elea- 
nor grew  paler  and  feebler.  Lucy  hovered  round 
her  in  a  constantly  increasing  anxiety.  And 
presently  she  began  to  urge  retreat,  and  change 
of  plan.  It  was  madness  to  stay  in  the  south. 
Why  not  move  at  once  to  Switzerland,  or  the 
Tyrol  ? 

Eleanor  shook  her  head 

**  But  I  can't  have  you  stay  here,"  cried  Lucy 
in  distress. 

And  coming  closer,  she  chose  her  favorite  seat 
on  the  floor  of  the  loggia  and  laid  her  head  against 
Eleanor's  arm. 

"  Oughtn't  you  to  go  home  ?"  she  said,  in  a  low 
urgent  voice,  caressing  Eleanor's  hand.  "Send 
me  back  to  Uncle  Ben.  I  can  go  home  any  time. 
But  you  ought  to  be  in  Scotland  Let  me  write 
to  Miss  Manisty !" 

Eleanor  laid  her  hand  on  her  mouth.  "  You 
promised!"  she  said,  with  her  sweet  stubborn  smile. 

**  But  it  isn't  right  that  I  should  let  you  run 
these  risks.     It — it — isn't  kind  to  me." 

"  I  don't  run  risks.  I  am  as  well  here  as  any- 
where. The  Orvieto  doctor  saw  no  objection  to 
my  being  here — for  a  month,  at  any  rate." 

"  Send  me  home,"  murmured  Lucy  again,  soft- 
ly kissing  the  hand  she  held.  "  I  don't  know  why 
I  ever  came." 

Eleanor  started.     Her  lips  grew  pinched  and 
bitter.     But  she  only  said  : 
429 


**'  Give  me  our  six  weeks.  All  I  want  is  you— 
and  quiet." 

She  held  out  both  her  hands  very  piteously, 
and  Lucy  took  them,  conquered,  though  not  con- 
vinced. 

"If  anything  went  really  wrong,"  said  Elea- 
nor, "  I  am  sure  you  could  appeal  to  that  old 
Contessa.  She  has  the  face  of  a  mother  in 
Israel." 

"  The  people  here  seem  to  be  pretty  much  in 
her  hand,"  said  Lucy,  as  she  rose.  "  She  man- 
ages most  of  their  affairs  for  them.  But  poor, 
poor  thing ! — did  you  see  that  account  in  the 
*Tribuna'  this  morning?" 

The  girl's  voice  dropped,  as  though  it  had 
touched  a  subject  almost  too  horrible  to  be 
spoken  of. 

Eleanor  looked  up  with  a  sign  of  shuddering 
assent.  Her  daily  '  Tribuna,'  which  the  postman 
brought  her,  had  in  fact  contained  that  morning 
a  letter  describing  the  burial — after  three  months ! 
— of  the  remains  of  the  army  slain  in  the  carnage 
of  Adowa  on  March  i.  For  three  months  had 
those  thousands  of  Italian  dead  lain  a  prey  to 
the  African  sun  and  the  African  vultures,  before 
Italy  could  get  leave  from  her  victorious  foe  to 
pay  the  last  offices  to  her  sons. 

That  fine  young  fellow  of  whom  the  neighbor- 
hood talked,  who  seemed  to  have  left  behind  him 
such  memories  of  energy  and  goodness,  his  moth- 
er's idol,  had  his  bones  too  lain  bleaching  on  that 
field  of  horror  ?  It  did  not  bear  thinking  of. 
430 


Lucy  went  down-stairs  to  attend  to  some  house- 
hold matters.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  presently  Eleanor  heard  the  post- 
man from  Selvapendente  knock  at  the  outer 
door.     Marie  brought  up  the  letters. 

There  were  four  or  five  for  Lucy,  who  had 
never  concealed  her  address  from  her  uncle, 
though  she  had  asked  that  it  might  be  kept  for 
a  while  from  other  people.  He  had  according- 
ly forwarded  some  home-letters,  and  Marie  laid 
them  on  the  table.  Beside  them  were  some  let- 
ters that  Lucy  had  just  written  and  addressed. 
The  postman  went  his  round  through  the  village  ; 
then  returned  to  pick  them  up. 

Marie  went  away,  and  suddenly  Eleanor  sprang 
from  the  sofa.  With  a  flush  and  a  wild  look  she 
went  to  examine  Lucy's  letters. 

Was  all  quite  safe  ?  Was  Lucy  not  tampering 
with  her,  betraying  her  in  any  way  ?  The  let- 
ters were  all  for  America,  except  one,  addressed 
to  Paris.  No  doubt  an  order  to  a  tradesman? 
But  Lucy  had  said  nothing  about  it  —  and  the 
letter  filled  Eleanor  with  a  mad  suspicion  that 
her  weakness  could  hardly  repress. 

"  Why  !  by  now — I  am  not  even  a  lady  !"  she 
said  to  herself  at  last  with  set  teeth,  as  she 
dragged  herself  from  the  table,  and  began  to 
pace  the  loggia. 

But  when  Lucy  returned,  in  one  way  or  an- 
other Eleanor  managed  to  inform  herself  as  to 
the  destination  of  all  the  letters.  And  then  she 
scourged  and  humbled  herself  for  her  doubts,  and 
431 


became  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  the  most  win- 
ning and  tender  of  companions. 

As  a  rule  they  never  spoke  of  Manisty.  What 
Lucy's  attitude  implied  was  that  she  had  in  some 
unwitting  and  unwilling  way  brought  trouble  on 
Eleanor ;  that  she  was  at  Torre  Amiata  to  repair 
it  ;  and  that  in  general  she  was  at  Eleanor's 
orders. 

Of  herself  she  would  not  allow  a  word.  Be- 
yond and  beneath  her  sweetness  Eleanor  divined 
a  just  and  indomitable  pride.  And  beyond  that 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  could  not  penetrate. 


M 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

EANWHILE  Eleanor  found  some  distrac- 
tion in  Father  Benecke. 
"The  poor  priest  was  gradually  recover- 
ing a  certain  measure  of  serenity.  The  two 
ladies  were  undoubtedly  of  great  assistance  to 
him.  They  became  popular  in  the  village,  where 
they  and  their  wants  set  flowing  a  stream  of  lire, 
more  abundant  by  far  than  had  hitherto  attend- 
ed the  summer  guests,  even  the  Sindaco  of  Sel- 
vapendente.  They  were  the  innocent  causes, 
indeed,  of  some  evil.  Eleanor  had  been  ordered 
goats'  milk  by  the  Orvieto  doctor,  and  the  gentle- 
man who  had  secured  the  order  from  the  massaja 
went  in  fear  of  his  life  at  the  hands  of  two  other 
gentlemen  who  had  not  been  equally  happy.  But 
in  general  they  brought  prosperity,  and  the  pop- 
ular smile  was  granted  them. 

So  that  when  it  was  discovered  that  they  were 
already  acquainted  with  the  mysterious  foreign 
priest,  and  stoutly  disposed  to  befriend  him,  the 
village  showed  the  paralyzing  effect  of  a  conflict 
of  interests.  At  the  moment  and  for  various 
reasons  the  clericals  were  masters.  And  the  cler- 
433 


icals  denounced  Father  Benecke  as  a  traitor  and 
a  heretic.  At  the  same  time  the  village  could 
not  openly  assail  the  ladies'  friend  without  run- 
ning the  risk  of  driving  the  ladies  themselves 
from  Torre  Amiata.  And  this  clearly  would  have 
been  a  mere  wanton  slight  to  a  kind  Providence. 
Even  the  children  understood  the  situation,  and 
Father  Benecke  now  took  his  walks  unmolested 
by  anything  sharper  than  sour  looks  and  averted 
faces. 

Meanwhile  he  was  busy  in  revising  a  new  edi- 
tion of  his  book.  This  review  of  his  own  position 
calmed  him.  Contact  with  all  the  mass  of  honest 
and  laborious  knowledge  of  which  it  was  a  sum- 
mary gave  him  back  his  dignity,  raised  him  from 
the  pit  of  humiliation  into  which  he  seemed  to 
have  fallen,  and  strengthened  him  to  resist.  The 
spiritual  privations  that  his  state  brought  him 
could  be  sometimes  forgotten.  There  were  mo- 
ments indeed  when  the  iron  entered  into  his  soul. 
When  the  bell  of  the  little  church  rang  at  half- 
past  five  in  the  morning,  he  was  always  there  in 
his  corner  by  the  door.  The  peasants  brushed 
past  him  suspiciously  as  they  went  in  and  out. 
He  did  not  see  them.  He  was  absorbed  in  the 
function,  or  else  in  a  bitter  envy  of  the  officiat- 
ing priest,  and  at  such  moments  he  suffered  all 
that  any  "Vaticanist"  could  have  wished  him  to 
suffer. 

But  when  he  was  once  more  among  his  books, 
large  gusts  of  a  new  and  strange  freedom  began, 
as  it  were,  to  blow  about  him.  In  writing  the 
434 


philosophical  book  which  had  now  brought  him 
into  conflict  with  the  Church,  he  had  written 
in  constraint  and  timidity.  A  perpetual  dread, 
not  only  of  ecclesiastical  censure  but  of  the 
opinion  of  old  and  valued  friends  ;  a  perpetual 
uncertainty  as  to  the  limits  of  Catholic  liberty  ; 
these  things  had  held  him  in  bondage.  What 
ought  he  say  ?  What  must  he  leave  unsaid  ?  He 
understood  perfectly  that  hypothesis  must  not  be 
stated  as  truth.  But  the  vast  accumulation  of 
biological  fact  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  historical 
criticism  on  the  other,  that  has  become  the  com- 
mon property  of  the  scientific  mind,  how  was  it 
to  be  recapitulated — within  Catholic  limits  ?  He 
wrote  in  fear,  like  one  walking  on  the  burning 
ploughshares  of  the  ordeal.  Religion  was  his 
life;  but  he  had  at  once  the  keen  intelligence 
and  the  mystical  temperament  of  the  Suabian. 
He  dreaded  the  collision  w^hich  ultimately  came. 
Yet  the  mental  process  could  not  be  stayed. 

Now,  with  the  final  act  of  defiance,  obscurely 
carried  out,  conditioned  he  knew  not  how,  there 
had  arrived  for  him  a  marvellous  liberation  of 
soul.  Even  at  sixty -five  he  felt  himself  tragi- 
cally new-born — naked  and  feeble  indeed,  but  still 
with  unknown  possibilities  of  growth  and  new 
life  before  him. 

His  book,  instead  of  being  revised,  must  be  re- 
written. No  need  now  to  tremble  for  a  phrase  ! 
Let  the  truth  be  told.  He  plunged  into  his  old 
studies  again,  and  the  world  of  thought  met  him 
with  a  friendlier  and  franker  welcome.  On  all 
435 


sides  there  was  a  rush  and  sparkle  of  new  light 
How  far  he  must  follow  and  submit,  his  trem- 
bling soul  did  not  yet  know.  But  for  the  moment 
there  was  an  extraordinary  though  painful  ex- 
hilaration— the  excitement  of  leading  -  strings 
withdrawn  and  walls  thrown  down. 

This  enfranchisement  brought  him,  however, 
into  strange  conflict  with  his  own  character.  His 
temperament  was  that  of  the  ascetic  and  vision- 
ary religious.  His  intelligence  had  much  the 
same  acuteness  and  pliancy  as  that  of  another 
and  more  pronounced  doubter — a  South  German 
also,  like  Father  Benecke,  —  the  author  of  the 
"  Leben  Jesu."  But  his  character  was  the  joint 
product  of  his  temperament  and  his  habits,  and 
was  often  difficult  to  reconcile  with  the  quick 
play  of  his  intelligence. 

For  instance,  he  was,  in  daily  habit,  an  austere 
and  most  devout  priest,  living  alone  with  his  old 
sister,  as  silent  and  yet  fervent  as  himself,  and 
knowing  almost  nothing  of  other  women,  except 
through  the  confessional.  To  his  own  astonish- 
ment he  was  in  great  request  as  a  director.  But 
socially  he  knew  very  little  of  his  penitents  ;  they 
were  to  him  only  "  souls,"  spiritual  cases  which 
he  studied  with  the  ardor  of  a  doctor.  Otherwise 
the  small  benefice  which  he  held  in  a  South  Ger- 
man town,  his  university  class,  and  the  travail  of 
his  own  research  absorbed  him  wholly. 

Hence  a  great  innocence  and  unworldliness ; 
but  also  an  underlying  sternness  towards  himself 
and  others.  His  wants  were  small,  and  for  many 
436 


years  the  desires  of  the  senses  had  been  dead 
within  him.  Towards  women  he  felt,  if  the  truth 
were  known,  with  that  strange  unconscious  arro- 
gance which  is  a  most  real  and  very  primitive 
element  in  Catholicism,  notwithstanding  the  wor- 
ship of  Mary  and  the  glories  of  St.  Teresa  and  St. 
Catharine.  The  Church  does  not  allow  any  wom- 
an, even  a  "  religious,"  to  wash  the  corporal  and 
other  linen  which  has  been  used  in  the  mass. 
There  is  a  strain  of  thought  implied  in  that  pro- 
hibition which  goes  deep  and  far  —  back  to  the 
dim  dawn  of  human  things.  It  influences  the 
priest  in  a  hundred  ways ;  it  affected  even  the 
tender  and  spiritual  mind  of  Father  Benecke. 
As  a  director  of  women  he  showed  them  all  that 
impersonal  sweetness  which  is  of  the  essence  of 
Catholic  tradition  ;  but  they  often  shrank  never- 
theless from  what  they  felt  to  be  a  fundamental 
inflexibility  mingled  "with  pity. 

Thus  when  he  found  himself  brought  into  forced 
contact  with  the  two  ladies  who  had  invaded  his 
retreat,  when  Lucy  in  a  hundred  pretty  ways 
began  to  show  him  a  young  and  filial  homage, 
when  Eleanor  would  ask  him  to  coffee  with  them, 
and  talk  to  him  about  his  book  and  the  subjects 
it  discussed,  the  old  priest  was  both  amazed  and 
embarrassed. 

How  in  the  world  did  she  know  anything  about 
rjuch  things  ?  He  understood  that  she  had  been 
of  assistance  to  Mr.  Manisty  :  but  that  it  had 
been  the  assistance  of  a  comrade  and  an  equal — 
that  had  never  entered  his  head. 
437 


So  that  at  first  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  talk  silenced 
and  repelled  him.  He  was  conscious  of  the  male 
revolt  of  St.  Paul  ! — "  I  suffer  not  a  woman  to 
teach" ;  and  for  a  time  he  hung  back. 

On  his  visit  to  the  villa,  and  on  her  first  meet- 
ing with  him  at  Torre  Amiata,  he  had  been  un- 
der the  influence  of  a  shock  which  had  crushed 
the  child  in  him  and  broken  down  his  reserve. 
Yet  that  reserve  was  naturally  strong,  together 
with  certain  despotic  instincts  which  Eleanor 
perceived  with  surprise  beneath  his  exquisite 
gentleness.  She  sometimes  despaired  of  taming 
him. 

Nevertheless  when  Eleanor  presently  advised 
him  to  publish  a  statement  of  his  case  in  a 
German  periodical;  when  the  few  quick  things 
she  said  showed  a  knowledge  of  the  German 
situation  and  German  current  literature  that 
filled  him  with  astonishment ;  when  with  a  few 
smiles,  hints,  demurs,  she  made  plain  to  him  that 
she  perfectly  understood  where  he  had  weakened 
his  book — which  lay  beside  her — out  of  deference 
to  authority,  and  where  it  must  be  amended,  if 
it  was  to  produce  any  real  influence  upon  Euro- 
pean cultivated  opinion,  the  old  priest  was  at 
first  awkward  or  speechless.  Then  slowly  he  rose 
to  the  bait.  He  began  to  talk  ;  he  became  by  de- 
grees combative,  critical,  argumentative.  His 
intelligence  took  the  field  ;  his  character  receded. 
Eleanor  had  won  the  day. 

Presently,  indeed,  he  began  to  haunt  them.  He 
brought  to  Eleanor  each  article  and  letter  as  it 
438 


arrived,  consulting  her  on  every  phase  of  a  con- 
troversy, concerning  him  and  his  book,  which 
was  now  sweeping  through  certain  Catholic  cir- 
cles and  newspapers.  He  was  eager,  forgetful, 
exacting  even,  Lucy  began  to  dread  the  fatigue 
that  he  sometimes  produced.  While  for  Lucy 
he  was  still  the  courteous  and  paternal  priest, 
for  Eleanor  he  gradually  became — like  Manisty — 
the  intellectual  comrade,  crossing  swords  often 
in  an  equal  contest,  where  he  sometimes  forgot 
the  consideration  due  to  the  woman  in  the  provo- 
cation shown  him  by  the  critic. 

And  when  she  had  tamed  him,  it  was  to  Elea- 
nor all  ashes  and  emptiness  ! 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  thing  I  can  always  do," 
she  said  to  herself  one  day,  throwing  out  her 
hands  in  self-scorn,  as  he  left  her  on  the  loggia, 
where  he  had  been  taking  coffee  with  herself  and 
Lucy. 

And  meanwhile  what  attracted  her  was  not  in 
the  least  the  controversialist  and  the  man  of  let- 
ters— it  was  the  priest,  the  christian,  the  ascetic. 

Torn  with  passion  and  dread  as  she  was,  she 
divined  in  him  the  director  ;  she  felt  towards 
him  as  the  woman  so  often  feels  towards  that 
sexless  mystery,  the  priest.  Other  men  are  the 
potential  lovers  of  herself  or  other  women  ;  she 
knows  herself  their  match.  But  in  this  man 
set  apart,  she  recognizes  the  embodied  conscience, 
the  moral  judge,  who  is  indifferent  to  her  as  a 
woman,  observant  of  her  as  a  soul.  Round  this 
attraction  she  flutters,  and  has  always  fluttered 
439 


since  the  beginning  of  things.  It  is  partly  a 
yearning  for  guidance  and  submission  ;  partly 
also  a  secret  pride  that  she  who  for  other  men 
is  mere  woman,  is,  for  the  priest,  spirit,  and  im- 
mortal. She  prostrates  herself ;  but  at  the  same 
time  she  seems  to  herself  to  enter  through  her 
submission  upon  a  region  of  spiritual  independ- 
ence where  she  is  the  slave,  not  of  man  but  of 
God. 

What  she  felt  also,  tortured  as  she  was  by  jeal- 
ousy and  angry  will,  was  the  sheer  longing  for 
human  help  that  must  always  be  felt  by  the 
lonely  and  the  weak.  Confession,  judgment,  di- 
rection— it  was  on  these  tremendous  things  that 
her  inner  mind  was  brooding  all  the  time  that 
she  sat  talking  to  Father  Benecke  of  the  Jew- 
ish influence  in  Bavaria,  or  the  last  number  of 
the  "CiviltaCattolica." 

One  evening  at  the  beginning  of  July  Eleanor 
and  Lucy  were  caught  in  the  woods  by  a  thun- 
der-shower. The  temperature  dropped  suddenly, 
and  as  they  mounted  the  hill  towards  the  con- 
vent Eleanor  in  her  thin  white  dress  met  a  blast 
of  cold  wind  that  followed  the  rain. 

The  result  was  chill  and  fever.  Lucy  and 
Marie  tended  her  as  best  they  could,  but  her 
strength  appeared  to  fail  her  with  great  rapid- 
ity, and  there  came  an  evening  when  Lucy  fell 
into  a  panic  of  anxiety. 

Should  she  summon  the  local  doctor — a  man 
who  was  paid  ;£'8o  a  year  by  the  Municipio  of 
440 


Selvapendente,  and  tended  the  Commune  of  Tor- 
re Amiata  ? 

She  had  discovered,  however,  that  he  was  riot 
liked  by  the  peasants.  His  appearance  was  not 
attractive,  and  she  doubted  whether  she  could 
persuade  Eleanor  to  see  him. 

An  idea  struck  her.  Without  consulting  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,  she  took  her  hat  and  boldly  walked 
up  to  the  Palazzo  on  the  hill.  Here  she  inquired 
for  the  Contessa  Guerrini.  The  Contessa,  how- 
ever, was  out ;  Lucy  left  a  little  note  in  French 
asking  for  advice.  Could  they  get  a  good  doctor 
at  Selvapendente,  or  must  she  send  to  Orvieto? 

She  had  hardly  reached  home  before  an  answer 
followed  her  from  the  Contessa,  who  regretted  ex- 
tremely that  Mademoiselle  Foster  should  not  have 
found  her  at  home.  There  was  a  good  doctor  at 
Selvapendente,  and  the  Contessa  would  have  great 
pleasure  in  sending  a  mounted  messenger  to  fetch 
him.  She  regretted  the  illness  of  madame.  There 
was  a  fair  farmacia  in  the  village.  Otherwise 
^he  was  afraid  that  in  illness  the  ladies  would  not 
find  themselves  very  well  placed  at  Torre  Amiata. 
Would  mademoiselle  kindly  have  her  directions 
for  the  doctor  ready,  and  the  messenger  would 
call  immediately  ? 

Lucy  was  sincerely  grateful  and  perhaps  a  little 
astonished.  She  was  obliged  to  tell  Eleanor,  and 
Eleanor  showed  some  restlessness,  but  was  too  un- 
well to  protest. 

The  doctor  came  and  proved  to  be  competent. 
The  fever  was  subdued,  and  Eleanor  was  sooxi 
441 


convalescent.  Meanwhile  flowers,  fruit,  and  deli- 
cacies were  sent  daily  from  the  Palazzo,  and  twice 
did  the  Contessa  descend  from  her  little  victoria 
at  the  door  of  the  convent  court-yard,  to  inquire 
for  the  patient. 

On  each  occasion  Lucy  saw  her,  and  received 
the  impression  of  a  dignified,  kind,  and  masterful 
woman,  bowed  by  recent  grief,  but  nevertheless 
sensitively  alive  in  a  sort  of  old-fashioned  stately 
way  to  the  claims  of  strangers  on  the  protection 
of  the  local  grandee.  It  seemed  to  attract  her 
that  Lucy  was  American,  and  that  Eleanor  was 
English. 

*'  I  have  twice  visited  England,"  she  said,  in  an 
English  that  was  correct,  but  a  little  rusty.  "My 
husband  learned  many  things  from  England — for 
the  estate.  But  I  wonder,  mademoiselle,  that  you 
come  to  us  at  this  time  of  year  ?" 

Lucy  laughed  and  colored.  She  said  it  was 
pleasant  to  see  Italy  without  the  for es tier i;  that 
it  was  like  surprising  a  bird  on  its  nest.  But  she 
stumbled  a  little,  and  the  Contessa  noticed  both 
the  blush  and  the  stumbling. 

When  Eleanor  was  able  to  go  out,  the  little  car- 
riage was  sent  for  her,  and  neither  she  nor  Lucy 
knew  how  to  refuse  it.  They  drove  up  and  down 
the  miles  of  zigzag  road  that  Don  Emilio  had 
made  through  the  forest  on  either  side  of  the 
river,  connecting  the  Palazzo  Guerrini  with  the 
casa  di  caccia  on  the  mountain  opposite.  The 
roads  were  deserted  ;  grass  was  beginning  to  grow 
on  them.  The  peasants  scarcely  ever  used  them. 
442 


They  clung  to  the  old  steep  paths  and  tracts  that 
had  been  theirs  for  generations.  But  the  small 
smart  horses,  in  their  jingling  harness,  trotted 
briskly  along ;  and  Eleanor  beside  her  compan- 
ion, more  frail  and  languid  than  ever,  looked  list- 
lessly out  upon  a  world  of  beauty  that  spoke  to 
her  no  more. 

And  at  last  a  note  from  the  Contessa  arrived, 
asking  if  the  ladies  would  honor  her  and  her 
daughter  by  taking  tea  with  them  at  the  Palaz- 
zo. "  We  are  in  deep  mourning  and  receiving  no 
society,"  said  the  note  ;  "  but  if  madame  and  her 
friend  will  visit  us  in  this  quiet  way  it  will  give 
us  pleasure,  and  they  will  perhaps  enjoy  the  high 
view  from  here  over  our  beautiful  country." 

Eleanor  winced  and  accepted. 

The  Palazzo,  as  they  climbed  up  through  the 
village  towards  it,  showed  itself  to  be  an  impos- 
ing pile  of  the  later  seventeenth  century,  with 
heavily  barred  lower  windows,  and,  above,  a  series 
of  graceful  loggie  on  its  northern  and  western 
fronts  which  gave  it  a  delicate  and  habitable  air. 
On  the  northeastern  side  the  woods,  broken  by 
the  stone-fall  of  the  Sassetto,  sank  sharply  to  the 
river;  on  the  other  the  village  and  the  vineyards 
pressed  upon  its  very  doors.  The  great  entrance 
gateway  opened  on  a  squalid  village  street,  alive 
with  crawling  babies  and  chatting  mothers. 

At  this  gateway,  however — through  which  ap- 
peared a  court-yard  aglow  with  oleanders  and 
murmurous  with  running  water — they  were  re- 
443 


ceived  with  some  state.  An  old  major-domo  liibt 
theiii,  accompanied  by  two  footmen  and  a  carry- 
ing-chair. Eleanor  was  borne  up  a  high  flight  of 
stone  stairs,  and  through  a  vast  and  bare  "  apart- 
ment "  of  enormous  rooms  with  tiled  or  brick 
floors  and  wide  stone  chemin^es^  furnished  with  a.^ 
few  old  chests  and  cabinets,  a  collection  of  French 
engravings  of  the  last  century,  and  some  indiffer- 
ent pictures.  A  few  of  the  rooms  were  frescoed 
with  scenes  of  hunting  or  social  life  in  a  facile 
eighteenth=century  style.  Here  and  there  was  d 
piece  of  old  tapestry  or  a  Persian  carpet.  Btit  as 
a  whole,  the  Palazzo,  in  spite  of  its  vastness,  made 
very  much  the  impression  of  an  old  English 
manor-house  which  has  belonged  to  people  of 
some  taste  and  no  great  wealth,  and  has  grown 
threadbare  and  even  ugly  with  age.  Yet  tradi- 
tion and  the  family  remain.  So  here.  A  friigal 
and  antique  dignity,  sure  of  itself  and  need- 
ing no  display,  breathed  in  the  great  cool 
spaces. 

The  Contessa  and  her  daughter  Were  iri  a  small 
and  more  modern  salone  looking  on  the  Hver  and 
the  woods.  Eleanor  was  placed  in  a  low  chair 
near  the  open  window,  and  her  hostess  could  not 
forbear  a  few  curious  and  pitying  glances  at  the 
sharp,  high-bred  face  of  the  Englishwoman,  the 
feverish  lips,  and  the  very  evident  emaciation, 
which  the  elegance  of  the  loose  black  dress  tried 
in  vain  to  hide. 

"  I  understand,  madame,"  she  said,  after  Elea- 
nor had  expressed  her  thariks  with  the  prettjf 
444 


effusion  that  was  natural  to  her,  "  that  you  were 
^t  Torre  Amiata  last  autumn  ?" 

Eleanor  started.  The  massaja,  she  supposed, 
had  been  gossiping.  It  was  disagreeable,  but 
good-breeding  bade  her  be  frank. 

"  Yes,  I  was  here  with  some  friends,  and  your 
agent  gave  us  hospitality  for  the  night." 

The  Contessa  looked  astonished. 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said,  "  you  were  here  with  the 
P s?" 

Eleanor  assented. 

"And  you  spent  the  winter  in  Rome?" 

"  Part  of  it.  Madame,  you  have  the  most  glo- 
rious view  in  the  world  !"  And  she  turned  tow- 
ards the  great  prospect  at  her  feet. 

The  Contessa  understood. 

"  How  ill  she  is  !"  she  thought ;  "and  how  dis- 
tinguished !" 

And  presently  Eleanor  on  her  side,  while  she 
vas  talking  nervously  and  fast  on  a  good  many 
disconnected  subjects,  found  herself  observing 
her  hostess.  The  Contessa's  strong  square  face 
had  been  pale  and  grief-stricken  when  she  saw  it 
first.  But  she  noticed  now  that  the  eyelids  were 
swollen  and  red,  as  though  from  constant  tears ; 
and  the  little  sallow  daughter  looked  sadder  and 
sjiyer  than  ever.  Eleanor  presently  gathered  that 
they  were  living  in  the  strictest  seclusion  and  saw 
no  visitors.  "  Then  why  "  —  she  asked  herself, 
ip^-pudering  —  "did  she  speak  to  us  in  the  Sasset- 
tp  ? — and  why  are  we  admitted  now  ?  Ah  !  that 
is  his  portrait !" 

445 


For  at  the  Contessa's  elbow,  on  a  table  specially 
given  up  to  it,  she  perceived  a  large  framed  pho- 
tograph draped  in  black.  It  represented  a  tall 
young  man  in  an  artillery  uniform.  The  face 
was  handsome,  eager,  and  yet  melancholy.  It 
seemed  to  express  a  character  at  once  impatient 
and  despondent,  but  held  in  check  by  a  strong 
will.  With  a  shiver  Eleanor  again  recalled  the 
ghastly  incidents  of  the  war  ;  and  the  story  they 
had  heard  from  the  massaja  of  the  young  man's 
wound  and  despair. 

Her  heart,  in  its  natural  lovingness,  went  out 

to  his  mother.     She  found  her  tongue,  and  she 

and  the  Contessa  talked  till  the  twilight  fell  of  the 

.country  and  the  peasants,  of  the  improvements  in 

Italian  farming,  of  the  old  convent  and  its  history. 

Not  a  word  of  the  war  ;  and  not  a  word,  Elea- 
nor noticed,  of  their  fellow  -  lodger,  Father  Be- 
necke.  From  various  indications  she  gathered 
that  the  sallow  daughter  was  devote  and  a 
"  black."  The  mother,  however,  seemed  to  be  of 
a  different  stamp.  She  was  at  any  rate  a  person 
of  cultivation.  That,  the  books  lying  about  were 
enough  to  prove.  But  she  had  also  the  shrewd- 
ness and  sobriety,  the  large  pleasant  homeliness, 
of  a  good  man  of  business.  It  was  evident  that 
she,  rather  than  her  fat  tore,  managed  her  prop- 
erty, and  that  she  perfectly  understood  what  she 
was  doing. 

In  truth,  a  secret  and  strong  sympathy  had 
arisen   between   the  two  women.      During  the 
days  that  followed  they  met  often. 
446 


The  Contessa  asked  no  further  questions  as  to 
the  past  history  or  future  plans  of  the  visitors. 
But  indirectly,  and  without  betraying  her  new 
friends,  she  made  inquiries  in  Rome.  One  of  the 
D family  wrote  to  her  : 

"The  English  people  we  brought  with  us  last 
year  to  your  delicious  Torre  Amiata  were  three 
— a  gentleman  and  two  ladies.  The  gentleman 
was  a  Mr.  Manisty,  a  former  member  of  the  Eng- 
lish Parliament,  and  very  conspicuous  in  Rome 
last  winter  for  a  kind  of  Brunetiere  alliance  with 
the  Vatican  and  hostility  to  the  Italian  regime. 
People  mostly  regarded  it  as  a  pose ;  and  as  he 
and  his  aunt  were  rich  and  of  old  family,  and  Mr. 
Manisty  was — when  he  chose — a  most  brilliant 
talker,  they  were  welcome  everywhere,  and  Rome 
certainly  feted  them  a  good  deal.  The  lady  stay- 
ing with  them  was  a  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  a  very  grace- 
ful and  charming  woman  whom  everybody  liked. 
It  was  quite  plain  that  there  was  some  close  rela- 
tion between  her  and  Mr.  Manisty.  By  which  I 
mean  nothing  scandalous  !  Heavens  !  nobody 
ever  thought  of  such  a  thing.  But  I  believe  that 
many  people  who  knew  them  well  felt  that  it 
would  be  a  very  natural  and  right  thing  that  he 
should  marry  her.  She  was  evidently  touchingly 
devoted  to  him  —  acting  as  his  secretary,  and 
hanging  on  his  talk.  In  the  spring  they  went 
out  to  the  hills,  and  a  young  American  girl  — 
quite  a  beauty,  they  say,  though  rather  raw — went 
to  stay  with  them.  I  heard  so  much  of  her  beauty 
from  Madame  Variani  that  I  was  anxious  to  see 
447 


her.  Miss  Manisty  promised  to  bring  her  here 
before  they  left  in  June.  But  apparently  the 
party  broke  up  suddenly,  and  we  saw  no  more  of 
them. 

"  Now  I  think  I  have  told  you  the  chief  facts 
about  them.  I  wonder  what  makes  you  ask?  I 
often  think  of  poor  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  and  hope  s}ie 
may  be  happy  some  day.  I  can't  say,  however, 
that  Mr.  Manisty  ever  seemed  to  me  a  very  de- 
sirable husband !  And  yet  I  was  very  sorry  you 
"were  not  at  home  in  the  autumn.  You  might 
have  disliked  him  heartily,  but  you  would  have 
found  him  piquant  and  stimulating.  And  of  all 
the  glorious  heads  on  man's  shoulders  he  pos- 
sesses the  most  glorious — the  head  of  a  god  at- 
tached to  a  rather  awkward  and  clumsy  body." 

Happy  !  Well,  whatever  else  might  have  hap- 
pened, the  English  lady  was  not  yet  happy.  Of 
that  the  Contessa  Guerrini  was  tolerably  certain 
after  a  first  conversation  with  her.  Amid  the 
gnawing  pressure  of  her  own  grief  there  was  a 
certain  distraction  in  the  observance  of  this  sad 
and  delicate  creature,  and  in  the  very  natural 
speculations  she  aroused.  Clearly  Miss  Foster 
was  the  young  American  girl.  Why  were  they 
here  together,  in  this  heat,  away  from  all  their 
friends  ? 

One  day  Eleanor  was  sitting  with  the  Contessa 

on   a   loggia  in  the  Palazzo,  looking   northwest 

towards  Radicofani.     It  was  a  cool  and  rather 

cloudy  evening,  after  a  day  of  gasping  heat.    The 

44§ 


major-domo  suddenly  announced:  "His  rever- 
ence, Don  Teodoro." 

The  yowng  padre  parroco  appeared — a  slim,  en- 
gaging figure,  as  he  stood  for  an  instant  ami^ 
the  curtains  of  the  doorway,  glancing  at  the  two 
ladies  with  an  expression  at  once  shy  and  con- 
fiding. 

He  received  the  Contessa's  greeting  with  effu' 
sion,  bowing  low  over  her  hand.  When  she  in- 
troduced him  to  the  English  lady,  he  bowed  again 
ceremoniously.  But  his  blue  eyes  lost  their 
smile.  The  gesture  was  formal,  the  look  con- 
strained. Eleanor,  remembering  Father  Benecke, 
understood. 

In  conversation  with  the  Contessa  however  Ije 
recovered  a  boyish  charm  and  spontaneity  that 
seemed  to  be  characteristic.  Eleanor  watched 
him  with  admiration,  noticing  also  the  subtle 
discernment  of  the  Italian,  which  showed  througl^ 
all  his  simplicity  of  manner.  It  was  impossible 
to  mistake,  for  instance,  that  he  felt  himself  in 
a  house  of  mourning.  The  movements  of  body 
and  voice  were  all  at  first  subdued  and  sympa- 
thetic. Yet  the  mourning  had  passed  into  a 
second  stage,  and  ordinary  topics  might  now  be 
introduced.  He  glided  into  them  with  the  most 
perfect  tact. 

He  had  come  for  two  reasons.  First,  to  an- 
nounce his  appointment  as  Select  Preacher  for 
the  coming  Advent  at  a  well-known  church  in 
Rome ;  secondly,  to  bring  to  the  Contessa's  notice 
a  local  poet — gifted,  but  needy — an  Orvieto  man, 
449 


whose  Muse  the  clergy  had  their  own  reasons  for 
cultivating. 

The  Contessa  congratulated  him,  and  he  bowed 
profoundly  in  a  silent  pleasure. 

Then  he  took  up  the  poet,  repeating  stanza 
after  stanza  with  a  perfect  naivete,  in  his  rich 
young  voice,  without  a  trace  of  display ;  ending 
at  last  with  a  little  sigh,  and  a  sudden  dropping 
of  the  eyes,  like  a  child  craving  pardon. 

Eleanor  was  delighted  with  him,  and  the  Con- 
tessa, who  seemed  more  difficult  to  please,  also 
smiled  upon  him.  Teresa,  the  pious  daughter, 
was  with  Lucy  in  the  Sassetto,  No  doubt  she 
was  the  little  priest's  particular  friend.  He  had 
observed  at  once  that  she  was  not  there,  and  had 
inquired  for  her. 

"  One  or  two  of  those  lines  remind  me  of  Car- 
ducci,  and  that  reminds  me  that  I  saw  Carducci 
for  the  first  time  this  spring,"  said  the  Contessa, 
turning  to  Eleanor.  "  Ifwas  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Accademia  in  Rome.  A  great  affair — the  King 
and  Queen — and  a  paper  on  Science  and  Religion, 
by  Mazzoli.  Perhaps  you  don't  remember  his 
name?  He  was  our  Minister  of  the  Interior  a 
few  years  ago." 

Eleanor  did  not  hear.  Her  attention  was  di- 
verted by  the  sudden  change  in  the  aspect  of  the 
padre  parroco.  It  was  the  dove  turned  hawk. 
The  fresh  face  seemed  to  have  lost  its  youth  in 
a  moment,  to  have  grown  old,  sharp,  rancorous. 

"  Mazzoli !" — he  said,  as  the  Contessa  paused— 
^^Eccellenza^  ^  un  Ebreo  /** 
4SO 


The  Contessa  frowned.  Yes,  Mazzoli  was  a 
Jew,  but  an  honest  man ;  and  his  address  had 
been  of  great  interest,  as  bearing  witness  to  the 
revival  of  religious  ideas  in  circles  that  had  once 
been  wholly  outside  religion.  The  parroco's  lips 
quivered  with  scorn.  He  remembered  the  affair 
— a  scandalous  business !  The  King  and  Queen 
present,  and  a  Jew  daring  before  them,  to  plead 
the  need  of  "  a  new  religion  "  —  in  Italy,  where 
Catholicism,  Apostolic  and  Roman,  was  guar- 
anteed as  the  national  religion — by  the  first  ar- 
ticle of  the  Stattito.  The  Contessa  replied  with 
some  dryness  that  Mazzoli  spoke  as  a  philosopher. 
Whereupon  the  parroco  insisted  with  heat  that 
there  could  be  no  true  philosophy  outside  the 
Church.  The  Contessa  laughed  and  turned  upon 
the  young  man  a  flashing  and  formidable  eye. 

"  Let  the  Church  add  a  little  patriotism  to  her 
philosophy,  Father,  —  she  will  find  it  better  ap- 
preciated." 

Don  Teodoro  straightened  to  the  blow.  "I 
am  a  Roman,  Eccellenza — you  also — SciisiT 

"  I  am  an  Italian,  Father — you  also.  But  you 
hate  your  country." 

Both  speakers  had  grown  a  little  pale. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Italy  of  Venti 
Settembre,"  said  the  priest,  twisting  and  untwist- 
ing his  long  fingers  in  a  nervous  passion.  "That 
Italy  has  three  marks  of  distinction  before  Europe 
— by  which  you  may  know  her." 

"And  those — ?"  said  the  Contessa,  calm  and 
challenging. 

451 


"  Debt,  Eccellenza — hunger  ! — crimes  of  blood ! 
Sono  il  suo  primato — Vunicor 

He  threw  at  her  a  look  sparkling  and  venomous. 
All  the  grace  of  his  youth  had  vanished.  As  he 
sat  there,  Eleanor  in  a  flash  saw  in  him  the  con- 
spirator and  the  firebrand  that  a  few  more  years 
would  make  of  him. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  Contessa,  flushing.  "  There  were 
none  of  these  things  in  the  old  Papal  States? — 
under  the  Bourbons? — the  Austrians?  Well — we 
understand  perfectly  that  you  would  destroy  us 
if  you  could !" 

^^  Eccellenzay'jtsns,  Christ  and  his  Vicar  come 
before  the  House  of  Savoy !" 

"  Ruin  us,  and  see  what  you  will  gain  !" 

^''  Eccellenza,  th.^  Lord  rules." 

"Well — well.  Break  the  eggs — that's  easy. 
But  whether  the  omelet  will  be  as  the  Jesuits 
please — that's  another  affair." 

Each  combatant  smiled,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  These  are  our  old  battles,"  said  the  Contessa, 
shaking  her  head.  ^^Scusif  I  must  go  and  give 
an  order." 

And  to  Eleanor's  alarm,  she  rose  and  left  the 
room. 

The  young  priest  showed  a  momentary  em- 
barrassment at  being  left  alone  with  the  strange 
l^dy.  But  it  soon  passed.  He  sat  a  moment, 
qt|i^ting  down,  with  his  eyes  dropped,  his  finger- 
tips lightly  joined  upon  his  knee.  Then  he  said 
sweetly : 

"You  are  perhaps  not  acquainted  with  the 
4$? 


pictures  in  the  Palazzo,  madame.  *  May  I  offer 
you  my  services?  I  believe  that  I  know  the 
names  of  the  portraits. 

Eleanor  was  grateful  to  him,  and  they  wan- 
dered through  the  bare  rooms,  looking  at  the 
very  doubtful  works  of  art  that  they  contained. 

Presently,  as  they  returned  to  the  salone  froni 
which  they  had  started,  .Eleanor  caught  sight  of 
a  fine  old  copy  of  the  Raphael  St.  Cecilia  at 
Bologna.  The  original  has  been  much  injured, 
and  the  excellence  of  the  copy  struck  her.  She 
was  seized,  too,  with  a  stabbing  memory  of  a  day 
in  the  Bologna  Gallery  with  Manisty  ! 

She  hurried  across  the  room  to  look  at  the 
picture.     The  priest  followed  her. 

"  Ah !  that,  madame,"  he  said  with  enthusiasm 
— "  that  is  a  capolavoro.  It  is  by  Michael  An- 
gelo." 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  This 
one  ?  It  is  a  copy,  Padre,  of  Raphael's  St.  Cecilia 
at  Bologna — a  very  interesting  and  early  copy." 

Don  Teodoro  frowned.  He  went  up  to  look  at 
it  doubtfully,  pushing  out  his  lower  lip. 

"Oh!  no,  madame."  he  said,  returning  to  her, 
and  speaking  with  a  soft  yet  obstinate  com- 
placency. "  Pardon  me — but  you  are  mistaken. 
That  is  an  original  work  of  the  great  Michael 
Angelo." 

Eleanor  said  no  more. 

When  the  Contessa  returned,  Eleanor  took  up 
a  volume  of  French  translations  from  the  Greek 
Anthology  that  the  Contessa  had  lent  her  the 
453 


day  before.  She  restored  the  dainty  little  book 
to  its  mistress,  pointing  to  some  of  her  favorites. 

The  parroco's  face  fell  as  he  listened. 

"  Ah  !  —  these  are  from  the  Greek  !"  he  said, 
looking  down  modestly,  as  the  Contessa  handed 
him  the  book.      "  I  spent  five  years,  Eccellenza^ 

in  learning  Greek,  but !"     He  shrugged  his 

shoulders  gently. 

Then  glancing  from  one  lady  to  the  other,  he 
said  with  a  deprecating  smile  : 

"  I  could  tell  you  some  things.  I  could  explain 
what  some  of  the  Greek  words  in  Italian  come 
from — '  mathematics,'  for  instance." 

He  gave  the  Greek  word  with  a  proud  humil- 
ity, emphasizing  each  syllable. 

"  '  Economy  ' — 'theocracy  ' — 'aristocracy.'  " 

The  Greek  came  out  like  a  child's  lesson.  He 
was  not  always  sure  ;  he  corrected  himself  once 
or  twice ;  and  at  the  end  he  threw  back  his  head 
with  a  little  natural  pride. 

But  the  ladies  avoided  looking  either  at  him  or 
each  other. 

Eleanor  thought  of  Father  Benecke ;  of  the 
weight  of  learning  on  that  silver  head.  Yet 
Benecke  was  an  outcast,  and  this  youth  was  al- 
ready on  the  ladder  of  promotion. 

When  he  departed  the  Contessa  threw  up  her 
hands. 

"And  that  man  is  just  appointed  Advent  Preach- 
er at  one  of  the  greatest  churches  in  Rome  !" 

Then  she  checked  herself. 

"  At  the  same  time,  madame,"  she  said,  look- 
454 


ing  a  little  stiffly  at  Eleanor,  "  we  have  learned 
priests — many  of  them." 

Eleanor  hastened  to  assent.  With  what  heat 
had  Manisty  schooled  her  during  the  winter  to 
the  recognition  of  Catholic  learning,  within  its 
own  self-chosen  limits! 

"  It  is  this  deplorable  seminary  education  /" 
sighed  the  Contessa.  "  How  is  one  half  of  the 
nation  ever  to  understand  the  other  ?  They 
speak  a  different  language.  Imagine  all  our  sci- 
entific education  on  the  one  side,  and  this — this 
dangerous  innocent  on  the  other  !  And  yet  we 
all  want  religion — we  all  want  some  hope  beyond 
this  life." 

Her  strong  voice  broke.  She  turned  away, 
and  Eleanor  could  only  see  the  massive  outline 
of  head  and  bust,  and  the  coils  of  gray  hair. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  the 
Contessa.  Silently  and  timidly  she  laid  a  hand 
upon  her  knee. 

"I  can't  understand,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"how  you  have  had  the  patience  to  be  kind  to 
us,  these  last  weeks  !" 

"  Do  you  know  why  ?"  said  the  Contessa,  turn- 
ing round  upon  her,  and  no  longer  attempting  to 
conceal  the  tears  upon  her  fine  old  face. 

"  No— tell  me  !" 

"  It  was  because  Emilio  loved  the  English. 
He  once  spent  a  very  happy  summer  in  Eng- 
land. I — I  don't  know  whether  he  was  in  love 
with  any  one.  But,  at  any  rate,  he  looked  back 
to  it  with  deep  feeling.  He  always  did  every- 
455 


thing  that  he  could  for  any  English  person — and 
especially  in  these  wilds.  I  have  known  him 
often  take  trouble  that  seemed  to  me  extrava- 
gant or  quixotic.  But  he  always  would.  And 
when  1  saw  you  in  the  Sassetto  that  day,  I  knew 
exactly  what  he  would  have  done.  You  looked 
so  delicate — and  I  remembered  how  rough  the 
convent  was.  I  had  hardly  spoken  to  anybody 
but  Teresa  since  the  news  came,  but  I  could  not 
help  speaking  to  you." 

Eleanor  pressed  her  hand.      After  a  paiise  sho 
said  gently : 

"  He  was  with  General  Da  Bormida  ?" 
"  Yes — he  was  with  Da  Bormida.  There  were 
three  columns,  you  remember.  He  was  with  the 
column  that  seemed  for  a  time  to  be  successful. 
I  only  got  the  full  account  last  week  from  a 
brother-officer,  who  was  a  prisoner  till  the  end 
of  June.  Emilio,  like  all  the  rest,  thought  the 
position  was  carried — that  it  was  a  victory.  He 
raised  his  helmet  and  shouted.  Viva  il  Rk !  Viva 
V Italia  !  And  then  all  in  a  moment  the  Scioans 
were  on  them  like  a  flood.  They  were  all  carried 
away.  Emilio  rallied  his  men  again  and  again, 
under  a  hail  of  bullets.  Several  heard  him  say : 
*  Courage,  lads  —  courage!  Your  captain  dies 
with  you!  Avanti !  avanti !  Viva  V Italia!' 
Then  at  last  he  was  frightfully  wounded,  and 
perhaps  you  may  have  heard  in  the  village" — 
again  the  mother  turned  her  face  away— "that 
he  said  to  a  caporale  beside  him,  who  came  from 
this  district,  whom  he  knew  at  home — '  Federigo, 
456 


take  your  gun  and  linish  it.'  He  was  afraid — 
my  beloved!  —  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  Already  they  had  passed  some  wound- 
ed, horribly  mutilated.  The  caporale  refused. 
*  I  can't  do  that,  Eccellenza^  he  said  ;  *  but  we 
will  transport  you  or  die  with  you  !*  Then  again 
there  was  a  gleam  of  victory.  He  thought  the 
enemy  were  repulsed.  A  brother  -  officer  saw 
him  being  carried  along  by  two  soldiers,  and 
Emilio  beckoned  to  him.  *  You  must  be  my  con- 
fessor !'  he  said,  smiling.  And  he  gave  him  some 
messages  for  me  and  Teresa — some  directions 
about  his  affairs.  Then  he  asked  ;  *  It  is  victory 
—isn't  it?  We  have  won,  after  all?*  And  the 
other — who  knew — couldn't  bear  to  tell  him  the 
truth.  He  said,  *  Yes.'  And  Emilio  said,  *You 
swear  it  ?'  *  I  swear.'  And  the  boy  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  —  said  again,  *"  Viva  V Italia  T — 
and  died.  .  .  .  They  buried  him  that  night  under 
a  little  thicket.  My  God  !  I  thank  Thee  that  he 
did  not  lie  on  that  accursed  plain  !" 

She  raised  her  handkerchief  to  hide  her  trem- 
bling lips.  Eleanor  said  nothing  Her  face  was 
bowed  upon  her  hands,  which  lay  on  the  Con- 
tessa's  knee. 

"  His  was  not  a  very  happy  temperament,"  said 
the  poor  mother  presently.  "  He  was  always 
anxious  and  scrupulous.  I  sometimes  thought 
he  had  been  too  much  influenced  by  Leopardi ; 
he  was  always  quoting  him.  That  is  the  way 
with  many  of  our  young  men.  Yet  Emilio  was 
a  Christian — a  sincere  believer.     It  would  have 

Q  457 


been  better  if  he  had  married.  But  he  gave  all 
his  affection  to  me  and  Teresa — and  to  this  place 
and  the  people.  I  was  to  carry  on  his  work — 
but  I  am  an  old  woman — and  very  tired.  Why 
should  the  young  go  before  their  time  ?  .  .  .  Yet 
I  have  no  bitterness  about  the  war.  It  was  a 
ghastly  mistake — and  it  has  humiliated  us  as  a 
nation.  But  nations  are  made  by  their  blun- 
derings  as  much  as  by  their  successes.  Emilio 
would  not  have  grudged  his  life.  He  always 
thought  that  Italy  had  been  *  made  too  quick,* 
as  they  say — that  our  day  of  trial  and  weakness 
was  not  done.  .  .  .  But,  Gesk  mio  I  —  if  he  had 
not  left  me  so  much  of  life." 

Eleanor  raised  her  head. 

"  I,  too,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper — "  I,  too, 
have  lost  a  son.     But  he  was  a  little  fellow." 

The  Contessa  looked  at  her  in  astonishment 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Then  we  are  two  miserable  women  !"  she  said, 
wildly. 

Eleanor  clung  to  her — but  with  a  sharp  sense 
of  unfitness  and  unworthiness.  She  felt  herself 
a  hypocrite.  In  thought  and  imagination  her 
boy  now  was  but  a  hovering  shadow  compared 
to  Manisty.  It  was  not  this  sacred  mother-love 
that  was  destroying  her  own  life. 

As  they  drove  home  through  the  evening  fresh- 
ness, Eleanor's  mind  pursued  its  endless  and  soli- 
tary struggle. 

Lucy  sat  beside  her.  Every  now  and  then 
458 


Eleanor's  furtive  guilty  loolj  sought  the  girls 
face.  Sometimes  a  flying  terror  would  grip  her 
by  the  heart.  Was  Lucy  graver — paler  ?  Were 
there  some  new  lines  round  the  sweet  eyes? 
That  serene  and  virgin  beauty  —  had  it  suffer- 
ed the  first  withering  touch  since  Eleanor  had 
known  it  first  ?  And  if  so,  whose  hand  ?  whose 
fault  ? 

Once  or  twice  her  heart  failed  within  her  ;  fore- 
seeing a  remorse  that  was  no  sooner  imagined 
than  it  was  denied,  scouted,  hurried  out  of  sight. 

That  brave,  large-brained  woman  with  whom 
she  had  just  been  talking;  there  was  something 
in  the  atmosphere  which  the  Contessa's  person- 
ality shed  round  it,  that  made  Eleanor  doubly 
conscious  of  the  fever  in  her  own  blood.  As  in 
Father  Benecke's  case,  so  here  ;  she  could  only 
feel  herself  humiliated  and  dumb  before  these 
highest  griefs — the  griefs  that  ennoble  and  en- 
throne. 

That  night  she  woke  from  a  troubled  sleep  with 
a  stifled  cry  of  horror.  In  her  dreams  she  had 
been  wrestling  with  Manisty,  trying  to  thrust 
him  back  with  all  the  frenzied  force  of  her  weak 
hands.  But  he  had  wrenched  himself  from  her 
hold.  She  saw  him  striding  past  her — aglow,  tri- 
umphant. And  that  dim  white  form  awaiting 
him— and  the  young  arms  outstretched  ! 

''  No,  no  !     False  !     She  doesn't — doesn't  love 

him  !"  her  heart  cried,  throwing  all   its  fiercest 

life  into  the  cry.     She   sat  up  in  bed  trembling 

and  haggard.  Then  she  stole  into  the  next  room. 

459 


Lucy  lay  deeply,  peacefully  asleep.  Eleanor 
sank  down  beside  her,  hungrily  watching  her. 
"How  could  she  sleep  like  that  —  if  —  if  she 
cared?"  asked  her  wild  thoughts,  and  she  com- 
forted herself,  smiling  at  her  own  remorse.  Once 
she  touched  the  girl's  hand  with  her  lips,  feeling 
towards  her  a  rush  of  tenderness  that  came  like 
dew  on  the  heat  of  the  soul.  Then  she  crept  back 
to  bed,  and  cried,  and  cried — through  the  golden 
mounting  of  the  dawn. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE  days  passed  on.  Between  Eleanor  and 
Lucy  there  had  grown  up  a  close,  intense, 
and  yet  most  painful  affection.  Neither 
gave  the  other  her  full  confidence,  and  on  Elea- 
nor's side  the  consciousness  both  of  the  futility 
and  the  enormity  of  what  she  had  done  only 
increased  with  time,  embittering  the  resistance 
of  a  will  which  was  still  fierce  and  unbroken. 

Meanwhile  she  often  observed  her  companion 
with  a  quick  and  torturing  curiosity.  What  was 
it  that  Manisty  had  found  so  irresistible,  when  all 
her  own  subtler  arts  had  failed  ? 

Lucy  was  in  some  ways  very  simple,  primitive 
even,  as  Manisty  had  called  her.  Eleanor  knew 
that  her  type  was  no  longer  common  in  a  modern 
America  that  sends  all  its  girls  to  college,  and 
ransacks  the  world  for  an  experience.  But  at 
the  same  time  the  depth  and  force  of  her  nature 
promised  rich  developments  in  the  future.  She 
was  still  a  daughter  of  New  England,  with  many 
traits  now  fast  disappearing  ;  but  for  her,  too, 
there  was  beginning  that  cosmopolitan  transfor- 
mation to  which  the  women  of  her  race  lend 
themselves  so  readily. 

461 


And  it  was  Manisty's  influence  that  was  at 
work  !  Eleanor's  miserable  eyes  discerned  it  in 
a  hundred  ways.  Half  the  interests  and  questions 
on  which  Manisty's  mind  had  been  fixed  for  so 
long  were  becoming  familiar  to  Lucy.  They  got 
books  regularly  from  Rome,  and  Eleanor  had 
been  often  puzzled  by  Lucy's  selections — till  one 
day  the  key  to  them  flashed  across  her. 

The  girl  indeed  was  making  her  way,  fast  and 
silently,  into  quite  new  regions  of  thought  and 
feeling.  She  read,  and  she  thought.  She  observed 
the  people  of  the  village  ;  she  even  frequented 
their  humble  church,  though  she  would  never  go 
with  Eleanor  to  Sunday  mass.  There  some  deep, 
unconquerable  instinct  held  her  back. 

All  through,  indeed,  her  personal  beliefs  and 
habits — evangelical,  unselfish,  strong,  and  a  little 
stern — seemed  to  be  quite  unchanged.  But  they 
were  differently  tinged,  and  would  be  in  time 
differently  presented.  Nor  would  they  ever,  of 
themselves,  divide  her  from  Manisty.  Eleanor 
saw  that  clearly  enough.  Lucy  could  hold  opin- 
ion passionately,  unreasonably  even  ;  but  she  was 
not  of  the  sort  that  makes  life  depend  upon  opin- 
ion. Her  true  nature  was  large,  tolerant,  pa- 
tient. The  deepest  forces  in  it  were  forces  of 
feeling,  and  no  intellectual  difference  would  ever 
be  able  to  deny  them  their  natural  outlet. 

Meanwhile  Lucy  seemed  to  herself  the  most 
hopelessly  backward  and  ignorant  person,  par- 
ticularly in  Eleanor's  company. 

"Oh  !  I  am  just  a  dunce,"  she  said  one  day  to 
462 


Eleanor,  with  a  smile  and  sigh,  after  some 
questions  as  to  her  childhood  and  bringing  up. 
''  They  ought  to  have  sent  me  to  college.  All 
the  girls  I  knew  went.  But  then  Uncle  Ben 
would  have  been  quite  alone.  So  I  just  had  to 
get  along." 

"  But  you  know  what  many  girls  don't  know." 

Lucy  gave  a  shrug. 

"  I  know  some  Latin  and  Greek,  and  other 
things  that  Uncle  Ben  could  teach  me.  But  oh! 
what  a  simpleton  I  used  to  feel  in  Boston  !" 

"  You  were  behind  the  age  ?" 

Lucy  laughed. 

*'  I  didn't  seem  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
age,  or  the  age  with  me.  You  see,  I  was  slow, 
and  everybody  else  was  quick.  But  an  American 
that  isn't  quick's  got  no  right  to  exist.  You're 
bound  to  have  heard  the  last  thing,  and  read  the 
last  book,  or  people  just  want  to  know  why  you're 
there  !" 

"  Why  should  people  call  you  slow  ?"  said  Elea- 
nor, in  that  voice  which  Lucy  often  found  so  dif- 
ficult to  understand,  because  of  the  strange  note 
of  hostility  which,  for  no  reason  at  all,  would 
sometimes  penetrate  through  the  sweetness. 
•'It's  absurd.  How  quickly  you've  picked  up 
Italian — and  frocks  ! — and  a  hundred  things." 

She  smiled,  and  stroked  the  brown  head  beside 
her. 

Lucy  colored,  bent  over  her  work,  and  did  not 
reply. 

Generally  they  passed  their  mornings  in  the 
463 


loggia  reading  and  working.  Lucy  was  a  dex- 
terous needle-woman,  and  a  fine  piece  of  embroid- 
ery had  made  much  progress  since  their  arrival 
at  Torre  Amiata.  Secretly  she  wondered  whether 
she  was  to  finish  it  there.  Eleanor  now  shrank 
from  the  least  mention  of  change  ;  and  Lucy, 
having  opened  her  generous  arms  to  this  burden, 
did  not  know  when  she  would  be  allowed  to  put 
it  down.  She  carried  it,  indeed,  very  tenderly 
— with  a  love  that  was  half  eager  remorse.  Still, 
before  long  Uncle  Ben  must  remonstrate  in  ear- 
nest. And  the  Porters, whom  she  had  treated  so 
strangely?  They  were  certainly  going  back  to 
America  in  September,  if  not  before.  And  must 
she  not  go  with  them  ? 

And  would  the  heat  at  Torre  Amiata  be  bear- 
able for  the  sensitive  northerner  after  July  ?  Al- 
ready they  spent  many  hours  of  the  day  in  their 
shuttered  and  closed  rooms,  and  Eleanor  was 
whiter  than  the  convolvulus  which  covered  the 
new-mown  hay-fields. 

What  a  darling — what  a  kind  and  chivalrous 
darling  was  Uncle  Ben  !  She  had  asked  him  to 
trust  her,  and  he  had  done  it  nobly,  though  it 
was  evident  from  his  letters  that  he  was  anxious 
and  disturbed.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  everything," 
she  had  written,  "or  I  should  be  betraying  a  con- 
fidence ;  but  I  am  doing  what  I  feel  to  be  right 
— what  I  am  sure  you  would  consent  to  my  doing 
if  you  knew.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  is  very  frail — and 
she  clings  to  me.  I  can't  explain  to  you  how  or 
why — but  so  it  is.  For  the  present  I  must  look 
464 


after  her.  This  place  is  beautiful ;  the  heat  not 
yet  too  great ;  and  you  shall  hear  every  week. 
Only,  please,  tell  other  people  that  I  wish  you 
to  forward  letters,  and  cannot  long  be  certain  of 
my  address." 

And  he : 

"  Dear  child,  this  is  very  mysterious.  I  don't 
like  it.  It  would  be  absurd  to  pretend  that  I  did. 
But  I  haven't  trusted  my  Lucy  for  fourteen  years 
in  order  to  begin  to  persecute  her  now  because 
she  can't  tell  me  a  secret.  Only  I  give  you  warn- 
ing that  ii  you  don't  write  to  me  every  week,  my 
generosity,  as  you  call  it,  will  break  down — and 
I  shall  be  for  sending  out  a  search-party  right 
away.  .  .  .  Do  you  want  money?  I  must  say 
that  I  hope  July  will  see  the  end  of  your  ad- 
venture." 

Would  it  ?  Lucy  found  her  mind  full  of  anx- 
ious thoughts  as  Eleanor  read  aloud  to  her. 

Presently  she  discovered  that  a  skein  of  silk 
she  wanted  for  her  work  was  not  in  her  basket. 
She  turned  to  look  also  in  her  old  inlaid  work-box, 
which  stood  on  a  small  table  beside  her.  But  it 
was  not  there. 

"  Please  wait  a  moment,"  she  said  to  her  com- 
panion.    "  I  am  afraid  I  must  get  my  silk." 

She  stood  up  hastily,  and  her  movement  upset 
the  rickety  cane  table.  With  a  crash  her  work- 
box  fell  to  the  ground,  and  its  contents  rolled  all 
over  the  loggia.     She  gave  a  cry  of  dismay. 

"  Oh  !  my  terracottas ! — my  poor  terracottas !" 

Eleanor  started,  and  rose  too,  involuntarily,  to 
465 


her  feet.  There  on  the  ground  lay  all  the  little 
Nemi  fragments  which  Manisty  had  given  to 
Lucy,  and  which  had  been  stowed  away,  each 
carefully  wrapped  in  tissue-paper,  in  the  well  of 
her  old  work-box, 

Eleanor  assisted  to  pick  them  up,  rather  silent- 
ly. The  note  of  keen  distress  in  Lucy's  voice 
rang  in  her  ears. 

"  They  are  not  much  hurt,  luckily,"  she  said. 

And  indeed,  thanks  to  the  tissue-paper,  there 
were  only  a  few  small  chips  and  bruises  to  be- 
moan when  Lucy  at  last  had  gathered  them  all 
safely  into  her  lap.  Still,  chips  and  bruises  in 
the  case  of  delicate  Graeco  -  Roman  terracottas 
are  more  than  enough  to  make  their  owner  smart, 
and  Lucy  bent  over  them  with  a  very  flushed 
and  rueful  face,  examining  and  wrapping  them 
up  again. 

"  Cotton-wool  would  be  better,"  she  said  anx- 
iously.    "  How  have  you  put  your  two  away  ?" 

Directly  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth  she 
felt  that  they  had  been  better  unspoken. 

A  deep  flush  stained  Eleanor's  thin  face. 

*'  I  am  afraid  I  haven't  taken  much  care  of 
them,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  little.  But  while 
Lucy  still  had  her  lap  full  of  her  treasures,  Elea- 
nor again  stood  up. 

"  I  will  go  in  and  rest  for  an  hour  before  de- 
jeuner.    I  think  I  might  go  to  sleep." 

She  had  passed  a  very  broken  night,  and  Lucy 
looked  at  her  with  tender  concern      She  quickly 
466 


but  carefully  laid  aside  her  terracottas,  that  she 
might  go  in  with  Eleanor  and  "  settle  her  "  com- 
fortably. 

But  whep  she  was  left  to  rest  in  her  carefully 
darkened  room,  and  Lucy  had  gone  back  to  the 
loggia^  Eleanor  got  no  wink  of  sleep.  She  lay 
in  an  anguish  of  memory,  living  over  again  that 
last  night  at  the  villa — thinking  of  Manisty  in 
the  dark  garden  and  her  own  ungovernable  im- 
pulse. 

Presently  a  slight  sound  reached  her  from  the 
loggia.  She  turjied  her  head  quickly.  A  sob? 
— from  Lucy  ? 

Her  heart  stood  still.  Noiselessly  she  slipped 
to  her  feet.  The  door  between  her  and  the  loggia 
had  been  left  ajar  for  air.  It  was  partially  glazed, 
with  shutters  of  plain  green  wood  outside,  and 
inside  a  muslin  blitid.     Eleanor  approached  it. 

Through  the  chink  of  the  door  she  saw  Lucy 
plainly.  The  girl  had  been  sitting  almost  with 
her  back  to  the  door,  but  she  had  turned  so  that 
her  profile  and  hands  were  visible. 

How  quiet  she  was  !  Yet  never  was  there  an 
attitude  more  eloquent.  She  held  in  her  hands, 
which  lay  upon  her  knee,  one  of  the  little  terra- 
cottas. Eleanor  could  see  it  perfectly.  It  was 
the  head  of  a  statuette,  not  unlike  her  own 
w^hich  she  had  destroyed, — a  smaller  and  ruder 
Artemis  with  the  Cybele  crown.  There  flashed 
into  her  mind  the  memory  of  Manisty  explaining 
it  to  the  girl,  sitting  on  the  bench  behind  the 
strawberry  hut ;  his  black  brows  bent  in  the 
467 


eagerness  of  his  talk;  her  sweet  eyes,  her  pure 
pleasure. 

And  now  Lucy  had  no  companion — but  thought. 
Her  face  was  raised,  the  eyes  were  shut,  the  beauti- 
ful mouth  quivered  in  the  effort  to  be  still.  She 
was  mistress  of  herself,  yet  not  for  the  moment 
wholly  mistress  of  longing  and  of  sorrow.  A 
quick  struggle  passed  over  the  face.  There  was 
another  slight  sob.  Then  Eleanor  saw  her  raise 
the  terracotta,  bow  her  face  upon  it,  press  it  long 
and  lingeringly  to  her  lips.  It  was  like  a  gest- 
ure of  eternal  farewell ;  the  gesture  of  a  child 
expressing  the  heart  of  a  woman. 

Eleanor  tottered  back.  She  sat  on  the  edge 
of  her  bed,  motionless  in  the  darkness,  till  the 
sounds  of  Cecco  bringing  up  the  pranzo  in  the 
corridor  outside  warned  her  that  her  time  of  sol- 
itude was  over. 

In  the  evening  Eleanor  was  sitting  in  the  Sas- 
setto.  Lucy  with  her  young  need  of  exercise  had 
set  off  to  walk  down  through  the  wood  to  the  first 
bridge  over  the  Paglia.  Eleanor  had  been  very 
weary  all  day,  and  for  the  first  time  irritable.  It 
was  almost  with  a  secret  relief  that  Lucy  started, 
and  Eleanor  saw  her  depart. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  left  stretched  on  her  long 
canvas  chair,  in  the  green  shade  of  the  Sassetto. 
All  about  her  was  a  chaos  of  moss-grown  rocks 
crowned  with  trees  young  and  old  ;  a  gap  in  the 
branches  showed  her  a  distant  peachy  sky  suf- 
fused with  gold  above  the  ethereal  heights  of  the 
468 


Amiata  range  ;  a  little  wind  crept  through  the 
trees ;  the  birds  were  silent,  but  the  large  green 
lizards  slipped  in  and  out,  and  made  a  friendly 
life  in  the  cool  shadowed  place. 

The  Contessa  was  to  have  joined  Eleanor  here 
at  six  o'clock.  But  a  note  had  arrived  excusing 
her.     The  visit  of  some  relations  detained  her. 

Nevertheless  a  little  after  six  a  step  was  heard 
approaching  along  the  winding  path  which  while 
it  was  still  distant  Eleanor  knew  to  be  Father 
Benecke.  For  his  sake,  she  was  glad  that  the 
Contessa  was  not  with  her. 

As  for  Donna  Teresa,  when  she  met  the  priest 
in  the  village  or  on  the  road  she  shrank  out  of 
his  path  as  thoug-h  his  mere  shadow  brought 
malediction. 

Her  pinched  face,  her  thin  figure  seemed  to 
contract  still  further  under  an  impulse  of  fear 
and  repulsion.  Eleanor  had  seen  it,  and  won- 
dered. 

But  even  the  Contessa  would  have  nothing  to 
say  to  him. 

^^  NoUy  madame ;  c*est  plus  fort  que  moi  T  she 
had  said  to  Eleanor  one  day  that  she  had  come 
across  Mrs.  Burgoyne  and  Father  Benecke  to- 
gether in  the  Sassetto — in  after-excuse  for  her 
behavior  to  him.  "  For  you  and  me — Hen  enten- 
du  ! — we  think  what  we  please.  Heaven  knows 
I  am  not  bigoted.  Teresa  makes  herself  unhappy 
about  me."  The  stout,  imperious  woman  stifled 
a  sigh  that  betrayed  much.  *'  I  take  what  I  "want 
from  our  religion— and  I  don't  trouble  about  the 
469 


rest.     Emilio  was  the  same.     But  a  priest  that 

disobeys — that  deserts !    No!  that  is  another 

matter.  I  can't  argue ;  it  seizes  me  by  the 
throat."  She  made  an  expressive  movement.  "  It 
is  an  instinct — an  inheritance — call  it  what  you 
like.  But  I  feel  like  Teresa ;  I  could  run  at  the 
sight  of  him." 

Certainly  Father  Benecke  gave  her  no  occasion 
to  run.  Since  his  recovery  from  the  first  shock 
and  agitation  of  his  suspension  he  had  moved 
about  the  roads  and  tracks  of  Torre  Amiata  with 
the  ''recollected"  dignity  of  the  pale  and  medi- 
tative recluse.  He  asked  nothing ;  he  spoke  to 
no  one,  except  to  the  ladies  at  the  convent,  and 
to  the  old  woman  who  served  him  unwillingly  in 
the  little  tumble-down  house  by  the  river's  edge 
to  which  he  had  now  transferred  himself  and  his 
books,  for  greater  solitude.  Eleanor  understood 
that  he  shrank  from  facing  his  German  life  and 
friends  again  till  he  had  completed  the  revision 
of  his  book,  and  the  evolution  of  his  thought ; 
and  she  had  some  reason  to  believe  that  he  re- 
garded his  isolation  and  the  enmity  of  this  Ital- 
ian neighborhood  as  a  necessary  trial  and  testing, 
to  be  borne  without  a  murmur. 

As  his  step  came  nearer,  she  sat  up  and  threw 
off  her  languor.  It  might  have  been  divined, 
even,  that  she  heard  it  with  a  secret  excitement. 

When  he  appeared  he  greeted  her  with  the 

manner  at  once  reticent  and  cordial  that  was 

natural  to  him.     He  had  brought  her  an  article 

in  a  German  newspaper  of  the  "  Centre  "  on  him- 

470 


self  and  his  case,  the  violence  of  which  had  pro- 
voked him  to  a  reply,  whereof  the  manuscript 
was  also  in  his  pocket. 

Eleanor  took  the  article  and  turned  it  over. 
But  some  inward  voice  told  her  that  her  role  of 
counsellor  and  critic  was  —  again  —  played  out. 
Suddenly  Father  Benecke  said  : 

"  I  have  submitted  my  reply  to  Mr.  Manisty.  I 
would  like  to  show  you  what  he  says." 

Eleanor  fell  back  in  her  chair.  "  You  know 
where  he  is  ?"  she  cried. 

Her  surprise  was  so  great  that  she  could  not  at 
once  disguise  her  emotion.  Father  Benecke  was 
also  taken  aback.  He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
papers  he  held. 

"  I  wrote  to  him  through  his  bankers  the  other 
day,  madame.  I  have  always  found  that  letters 
so  addressed  to  him  are  forwarded." 

Then  he  stopped  in  distress  and  perturbation. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  still  apparently  struggling 
for  breath  and  composure.  His  absent,  seer's 
eyes  at  last  took  note  of  her  as  a  human  being. 
He  understood,  all  at  once,  that  he  had  before 
him  a  woman  very  ill,  apparently  very  unhappy, 
and  that  what  he  had  just  said  had  thrown  her 
into  an  anguish  with  which  her  physical  weak- 
ness was  hardly  able  to  cope. 

The  color  rose  in  his  own  cheeks. 

"  Madame !  let  me  hasten  to  say  that  I  have 

done  your  bidding  precisely.     You  were  so  good 

as  to  tell  me  that  you  wished  no  information  to 

be  given  to  any  one  as  to  your  stay  here.    I  have 

471 


not  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  Mr.  Manisty  or  to 
any  other  of  my  correspondents.  Let  me  show 
you  his  letter." 

He  held  it  out  to  her.  Eleanor  took  it  with 
uncertain  fingers. 

"Your  mention  of  him  took  me  by  surprise," 
she  said,  after  a  moment.  "  Miss  Foster  and  I 
— have  been — so  long — without  hearing;  of  our 
friends." 

Then  she  stooped  over  the  letter.  It  seemed 
to  her  the  ink  was  hardly  dry  on  it — that  it  was 
still  warm  from  Manisty's  hand.  The  date  of  it 
was  only  three  days  old.  And  the  place  from 
which  it  came?  Cosenza? — Cosenza  in  Calabria? 
Then  he  was  still  in  Italy  ? 

She  put  the  letter  back  into  Father  Benecke's 
hands. 

"Would  you  read  it  for  me?  I  have  rather  a 
headache  to-day. " 

He  read  it  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed  voice. 
She  lay  listening,  with  her  eyes  closed  under  her 
large  hat,  each  hand  trying  to  prevent  the  trem- 
bling of  the  other. 

A  strange  pride  swelled  in  her.  It  Was  a  kind 
and  manly  letter,  expressing  far  more  personal 
sympathy  with  Benecke  than  Manisty  had  ever 
yet  allowed  himself — a  letter  wholly  creditable 
indeed  to  the  writer,  and  marked  with  a  free  and 
flowing  beauty  of  phrase  that  brought  home  to 
Eleanor  at  every  turn  his  voice,  his  movements, 
the  ideas  and  sympathies  of  the  writer. 

Towards  the  end  came  the  familiar  Manistyism  : 
472 


*'A1I  the  same,  their  answer  to  you  is  still  as 
good  as  ever.  The  system  must  either  break  up 
or  go  on.  They  naturally  prefer  that  it  should 
go  on.  But  if  it  is  worked  by  men  like  you,  it 
cannot  go  on.  Their  instinct  never  wavers  ;  and 
it  is  a  true  one." 

Then : 

"I  don't  know  how  I  managed  to  write  this 
letter — poor  stuff  as  it  is.  My  mind  at  this  mo- 
ment is  busy  neither  with  speculation  nor  poli- 
tics. I  am  perched  for  the  night  on  the  side  of 
a  mountain  thickly  covered  with  beech  woods,  in 
a  remote  Calabrian  hamlet,  where  however  last 
year  some  pushing  person  built  a  small  *  health 
resort,'  to  which  a  few  visitors  come  from  Naples 
and  even  from  Rome.  The  woods  are  vast,  the 
people  savage.  The  brigands  are  gone,  or  going ; 
of  electric  light  there  is  plenty.  I  came  this 
morning,  and  shall  be  gone  to-morrow.  I  am  a 
pilgrim  on  the  face  of  Italy.  For  six  weeks  I 
have  wandered  like  this,  from  the  Northern  Ab- 
ruzzi  downward.  Wherever  holiday  folk  go  to 
escape  from  the  heat  of  the  plains,  I  go.  But  my 
object  is  not  theirs.  .  .  .  Nor  is  it  yours,  Padre. 
There  are  many  quests  in  the  world.  Mine  is 
one  of  the  oldest  that  man  knows.  My  heart 
pursues  it,  untired.  And  in  the  end  I  shall  win 
to  my  goal." 

The  old   priest  read  the  last  paragraph  in  a 

hurried,  unsteady  voice.      At  every  sentence  he 

became  aware  of  some  electrical  eft'ect  upon  the 

delicate  frame  and  face  beside  him  ;  but  he  read 

473 


on — not  knowing  how  to  save  himself — lest  she 
should  think  that  he  had  omitted  anything. 

When  he  dropped  the  letter  his  hands,  too, 
shook.     There  was  a  silence. 

Slowly  Eleanor  dragged  herself  higher  in  her 
chair  ;  she  pushed  her  hat  back  from  her  fore- 
head ;  she  turned  her  white  drawn  face  upon  the 
priest. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  bending  towards  him,  "  you 
are  a  priest — and  a  confessor?" 

His  face  changed.  He  waited  an  instant  be- 
fore replying. 

"  Yes,  madame — I  am  !"  he  said  at  last,  with  a 
firm  and  passionate  dignity. 

"  Yet  now  you  cannot  act  as  a  priest.  And  I 
am  not  a  Catholic.  Still,  I  am  a  human  being — 
with  a  soul,  I  suppose — if  there  are  such  things  ! 
— and  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  father,  and 
have  had  great  experience.  I  am  in  trouble — 
and  probably  dying.  Will  you  hear  my  case — as 
though  it  were  a  confession  —  under  the  same 
seal?" 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him.  Insensibly  the 
priest's  expression  had  changed ;  the  priestly 
caution,  the  priestly  instinct  had  returned.  He 
looked  at  her  steadily  and  compassionately. 

"  Is  there  no  one,  madame,  to  whom  you  might 
more  profitably  make  this  confession  —  no  one 
who  has  more  claim  to  it  than  I  ?" 

"No  one." 

"  I  cannot  refuse,**  he  said,  uneasily.      "  I  can- 
not refuse  to  hear  any  one  in  trouble  and — if  I 
474 


can — to  help  them.  But  let  me  remind  you  u  dl 
this  could  not  be  in  any  sense  a  true  confession. 
It  could  only  be  a  conversation  between  friends." 

She  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"I  must  treat  it  as  a  confession^  or  I  cannot 
speak.  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  absolve  me.  That 
— that  would  do  me  no  good,"  she  said,  with  a  lit- 
tle wild  laugh.  "  What  I  want  is  direction — from 
some  one  accustomed  to  look  at  people  as  they 
are — and — and  to  speak  the  truth  to  them.  Say 
*  yes,*  Padre.  You — you  may  have  the  fate  of 
three  lives  in  your  hands." 

Her  entreating  eyes  hung  upon  him.  His  con- 
sideration took  a  few  moments  longer.  Then 
he  dropped  his  own  look  upon  the  ground,  and 
clasped  his  hands. 

"  Say,  my  daughter,  all  that  you  wish  to  say." 

The  priestly  phrase  gave  her  courage. 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  paused  a  little  to 
collect  her  thoughts.  When  she  began,  it  was  in 
a  low,  dragging  voice  full  of  effort. 

"  What  I  want  to  know,  Father,  is — how  far 
one  may  fight — how  far  one  s/iould  fight — for  one's 
self.  The  facts  are  these.  I  will  not  mention 
any  names.  Last  winter.  Father,  I  had  reason 
to  think  that  life  had  changed  for  me  —  after 
many  years  of  unhappiness.  I  gave  my  whole, 
whole  heart  away."  The  words  came  out  in  a 
gasp,  as  though  a  large  part  of  the  physical 
power  of  the  speaker  escaped  with  them.  "  I 
thought  that  —  in  return  —  I  was  held  in  high 
value,  in  true  affection — that — that  my  friend 
475 


o-ared  for  me  more  than  for  any  one  else — that 
in  time  he  would  be  mine  altogether.  It  was  a 
great  hope,  you  understand — I  don't  put  it  at 
more.  But  I  had  done  much  to  deserve  his 
kindness — he  owed  me  a  great  deal.  Not,  I  mean, 
for  the  miserable  work  I  had  done  for  him ;  but 
for  all  the  love,  the  thought  by  day  and  night 
that  I  had  given  him." 

She  bowed  her  head  on  her  hands  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  priest  sat  motionless  and  she  re- 
sumed, torn  and  excited  by  her  strange  task. 

"  I  was  not  alone  in  thinking  and  hoping — as  I 
did.  Other  people  thought  it.  It  was  not  mere- 
ly presumptuous  or  foolish  on  my  part.  But — 
ah  !  it  is  an  old  story,  Padre.  I  don't  know  why 
I  inflict  it  on  you  !'* 

She  stopped,  wringing  her  hands. 

The  priest  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  sat  quiet- 
ly— in  an  attitude  a  little  cold  and  stern,  which 
seemed  to  rebuke  her  agitation.  She  composed 
herself,  and  resumed : 

"  There  was  of  course  some  one  else,  Father— 
you  understood  that  from  the  beginning — some 
one  younger,  and  far  more  attractive  than  I.  It 
took  five  weeks — hardly  so  much.  There  was  no 
affinity  of  nature  and  mind  to  go  upon — or  I 
thought  so.  It  seemed  to  me  all  done  in  a  mo- 
ment by  a  beautiful  face.  I  could  not  be  expect- 
ed to  bear  it— to  resign  myself  at  once  to  the 
loss  of  everything  that  made  life  worth  living- 
could  I,  Father  ?"  she  said  passionately. 

The  priest  still  did  not  look  up. 
476 


"  You  resisted  ?"  he  said. 

"I  resisted — successfully,"  she  said  with  flut- 
tering breath.  "I  separated  them.  The  girl 
who  supplanted  me  was  most  tender,  dear,  and 
good.  She  pitied  me,  and  I  worked  upon  her 
pity.  I  took  her  away  from — from  my  friend. 
And  why  should  I  not  ?  Why  are  we  called  upon 
perpetually  to  give  up — give  up?  It  seemed  to 
me  such  a  cruel,  cold,  unhuman  creed.  I  knew 
my  own  life  was  broken — beyond  mending  ;  but 
I  couldn't  bear  the  unkindness — I  couldn't  for- 
give the  injury— I  couldn't — couldn't !  I  took 
her  away  ;  and  my  power  is  still  great  enough, 
and  will  be  always  great  enough,  if  I  choose,  to 
part  these  two  from  each  other  !" 

Her  hands  were  on  her  breast,  as  though  she 
were  trying  to  still  the  heart  that  threatened  to 
silence  her.  When  she  spoke  of  giving  up,  her 
voice  had  taken  a  note  of  scorn,  almost  of  hatred, 
that  brought  a  momentary  furrow  to  the  priest's 
brow. 

For  a  little  while  after  she  had  ceased  to  speak 
he  sat  bowed,  and  apparently  deep  in  thought. 
When  he  looked  up  she  braced  herself,  as  though 
she  already  felt  the  shock  of  judgment.  But  he 
only  asked  a  question. 

"  Your  girl  friend,  madame  —  her  happiness 
was  not  involved  ?" 

Eleanor  shrank  and  turned  away. 

"I  thought  not — at  first."  It  was  a  mere  mur- 
mur. 

*'  But  now  r 

477 


"  I  don't  know — I  suspect,"  she  said  miser 
ably.  "  But,  Father,  if  it  were  so  she  is  young  ; 
she  has  all  her  powers  and  chances  before  her. 
What  would  kill  me  would  only — anticipate — for 
her — a  day  that  must  come.  She  is  born  to  be 
loved." 

Again  she  let  him  see  her  face,  convulsed  by  the 
effort  for  composure,  the  eyes  shining  with  large 
tears.     It  was  like  the  pleading  of  a  wilful  child. 

A  veil  descended  also  on  the  pure  intense  gaze 
of  the  priest,  yet  he  bent  it  steadily  upon  her. 

"  Madame — God  has  done  you  a  great  honor." 

The  words  were  just  breathed,  but  they  did 
not  falter.  Mutely,  with  parted  lips,  she  seemed 
to  search  for  his  meaning. 

"  There  are  very  few  of  whom  God  condescends 
to  ask,  as  plainly,  as  generously,  as  He  now  asks 
of  you.  What  does  it  matter,  madame,  whether 
God  speaks  to  us  amid  the  thorns  or  the  flowers? 
But  I  do  not  remember  that  He  ever  spoke  among 
the  flowers,  but  often — often,  among  deserts  and 
wildernesses.  And  when  He  speaks— madame ! 
the  condescension,  the  gift  is  that  He  should 
speak  at  all ;  that  He,  our  Maker  and  Lord,  should 
plead  with,  should  as  it  were  humble  Himself  to, 
our  souls.  Oh !  how  we  should  hasten  to  answer, 
how  we  should  hurry  to  throw  ourselves  and  all 
that  we  have  into  His  hands !" 

Eleanor  turned  away.  Unconsciously  she  be- 
gan to  strip  the  moss  from  a  tree  beside  her. 
The  tears  dropped  upon  her  lap. 

But  the  appeal  was  to  religious  emotion,  not 
478 


Lo  the    moral  judgment,  and    she    rallied  her 
forces. 

"  You  speak,  Father,  as  a  priest — as  a  Christian. 
I  understand  of  course  that  that  is  the  Christian 
language,  the  Christian  point  of  view." 

'*  My  daughter,"  he  said  simply,  "  I  can  speak 
no  other  language." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  he  resumed :  '  But 
consider  it  for  a  moment  from  another  point  of 
view.  You  say  that  for  yourself  you  have  re- 
nounced the  expectation  of  happiness.  What, 
then,  do  you  desire?  Merely  the  pain,  the  humil- 
iation of  others?  But  is  that  an  end  that  any 
man  or  woman  may  lawfully  pursue— Pagan  or 
Christian?  It  was  not  a  Christian  who  said, 
*Men  exist  for  the  sake  of  one  another.'  Yet 
when  two  other  human  beings  —  your  friends 
— have  innocently — unwittingly  —  done  you  a 
wrong " 

She  shook  her  head  silently. 

The  priest  observed  her. 

"  One  at  least,  you  said,  was  kind  and  good — 
showed  you  a  compassionate  spirit — and  intended 
you  no  harm.  Yet  you  will  punish  her — for  the 
sake  of  your  own  pride.  And  she  is  young.  You 
who  are  older,  and  better  able  to  control  passion, 
ought  you  not  to  feel  towards  her  as  a  tender 
elder  sister — a  mother — rather  than  a  rival?" 

He  spoke  with  a  calm  and  even  power,  the 
protesting  force  of  his  own  soul  mounting  all  the 
time  like  a  tide. 

Eleanor  rose  again  in  revolt. 
479 


"It  is  no  use,"  she  said  despairingly.  "Do 
you  understand,  Father,  what  I  said  to  you  at 
first? — that  I  have  probably  not  many  months — 
a  year  perhaps — to  live?  And  that  to  give  these 
two  to  each  other  would  embitter  all  my  last 
days  and  hours — would  make  it  impossible  for 
me  to  believe,  to  hope,  anything?" 

"  No,  no,  poor  soul !"  he  said,  deeply  moved. 
"  It  would  be  with  you  as  with  St.  John :  '  Now 
we  know  that  we  have  passed  from  death  unto 
life,  because  we  love  the  brethren.'" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  have  no  faith — and  no  hope." 

His  look  kindled,  took  a  new  aspect  almost  of 
command. 

"You  do  yourself  wrong.  Could  you  have 
brought  yourself  to  ask  this  counsel  of  me,  if 
God  had  not  been  already  at  work  in  your  soul 
— if  your  sin  were  not  already  half  conquered?" 

She  recoiled  as  though  from  a  blow.  Her 
cheek  burned. 

"  Sin  !"  she  repeated  bitterly,  with  a  kind  of 
scorn,  not  able  to  bear  the  word. 

But  he  did  not  quail. 

"All  selfish  desire  is  sin  —  desire  that  defies 
God  and  wills  the  hurt  of  man.  But  you  will 
cast  it  out.  The  travail  is  already  begun  in  you 
that  will  form  the  Christ." 

"  Father,  creeds  and  dogmas  mean  nothing  to 
me!" 

"Perhaps,"   he  said   calmly.     "Does   religion 
also  mean  nothing  to  you?" 
480 


**0h!  I  am  a  weak  woman,"  she  said  with  a 
quivering  lip.  "  I  throw  myself  on  all  that  prom- 
ises consolation.  When  I  see  the  nuns  from 
down  below  pass  up  and  down  this  road,  I  often 
think  that  theirs  is  the  only  way  out ;  that  the 
Catholic  Church  and  a  convent  are  perhaps  the 
solution  to  which  I  must  come — for  the  little 
while  that  remains." 

"  In  other  words,"  he  said  after  a  pause, "  God 
offers  you  one  discipline,  and  you  would  choose 
another.  Well,  the  Lord  gave  the  choice  to 
David  of  what  rod  he  would  be  scourged  with ; 
but  it  always  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  choice 
was  an  added  punishment.  I  would  not  have 
chosen.  I  would  have  left  all  to  His  Divine 
Majesty  !  This  cross  is  not  of  your  own  making ; 
it  comes  to  you  from  God.  Is  it  not  the  most 
signal  proof  of  His  love?  He  asks  of  you  what 
only  the  strongest  can  bear;  gives  you  just  time 
to  serve  Him  with  the  best.  As  I  said  before, 
is  it  not  His  way  of  honoring  His  creature?" 

Eleanor  sat  without  speaking,  her  delicate 
head  drooping. 

"And,  madame,"  the  priest  continued  with  a 
changed  voice,  "  you  say  that  creeds  and  dogmas 
mean  nothing  to  you.  How  can  I,  who  am  now 
cast  out  from  the  Visible  Church,  uphold  them 
to  you — attempt  to  bind  them  on  your  conscience? 
But  one  thing  I  can  do,  whether  as  man  or  priest ; 
I  can  bid  you  ask  yourself  whether  in  truth  Christ 
means  nothing  to  you — and  Calvary  nothing?" 

He  paused,  staring  at  her  with  his  bright  and 
481 


yet  unseeing  eyes,  the  wave  of  feeling  rising 
within  him  to  a  force  and  power  born  of  recent 
storm,  of  the  personal  wrestling  with  a  personal 
anguish. 

"  Why  is  it " — he  resumed,  each  word  low  and 
pleading, — "  that  this  divine  figure  is  enshrined, 
if  not  in  all  our  affections— at  least  in  all  our  im- 
aginations? Why  is  it  that  at  the  heart  of  this 
modern  world,  with  all  its  love  of  gold,  its  thirst 
for  knowledge,  its  desire  for  pleasure,  there  still 
lives  and  burns  " — 

— He  held  out  his  two  strong  clenched  hands, 
quivering,  as  though  he  held  in  them  the  vibrat- 
ing heart  of  man — 

— "this  strange  madness  of  sacrifice,  this  fool- 
ishness of  the  Cross?  Why  is  it  that  in  these 
polite  and  civilized  races  which  lead  the  world, 
while  creeds  and  Churches  divide  us,  what  still 
touches  us  most  deeply,  what  still  binds  us  to- 
gether most  surely,  is  this  story  of  a  hideous 
death,  which  the  spectators  said  was  voluntary — 
which  the  innocent  Victim  embraced  with  joy  as 
the  ransom  of  His  brethren — from  which  those 
who  saw  it  received  in  very  truth  the  communi- 
cation of  a  new  life — a  life,  a  Divine  Mystery,  re- 
newed among  us  now,  day  after  day,  in  thousands 
of  human  beings?  What  does  it  mean,  madame? 
Ask  yourself!  How  has  our  world  of  lust  and 
iron  produced  such  a  thing?  How,  except  as  the 
clew  to  the  world's  secret,  is  man  to  explain  it  to 
himself?  Ah !  my  daughter,  think  what  you  will 
of  the  nature  and  dignity  of  the  Crucified — but 
482 


turn  your  eyes  to  the  Cross !  Trouble  yourself 
with  no  creeds — I  speak  this  to  your  weakness — 
but  sink  yourself  in  the  story  of  the  Passion  and 
its  work  upon  the  world !  Then  bring  it  to  bear 
upon  your  own  case.  There  is  in  you  a  root  of 
evil  mind — an  angry  desire — a  cupido  which  keeps 
you  from  God.  Lay  it  down  before  the  Cruci- 
fied, and  rejoice — rejoice  ! — that  you  have  some- 
thing to  give  to  your  God — before  He  gives  you 
Himself!" 

The  old  man's  voice  sank  and  trembled. 

Eleanor  made  no  reply.  Her  capacity  for  emo- 
tion was  suddenly  exhausted.  Nerve  and  brain 
were  tired  out. 

After  a  minute  or  two  she  rose  to  her  feet  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  Your  words 
touch  me  very  much,  but  they  seem  to  me  some- 
how remote  —  impossible.  Let  me  think  of 
them.  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  talk  more 
now." 

She  bade  him  good-night,  and  left  him.  With 
her  feeble  step  she  slowly  mounted  the  Sassetto 
path,  and  it  was  some  little  time  before  her 
slender  form  and  white  dress  disappeared  among 
the  trees. 

Father  Benecke  remained  alone — a  prey  to 
many  conflicting  currents  of  thought. 

For    him   too  the  hour    had   been    strangely 
troubling  and  revolutionary.     On  the  recognized 
lines  of  Catholic  confession  and  direction,  all  that 
483 


had  been  asked  of  him  would  have  been  easy  to 
give.  As  it  was,  he  had  been  obliged  to  deal 
with  the  moral  emergency  as  he  best  could  ;  by 
methods  which,  now  that  the  crisis  was  over, 
filled  him  with  a  sudden  load  of  scrupulous 
anguish. 

The  support  of  a  great  system  had  been  with- 
drawn from  him.  He  still  felt  himself  neither 
man  nor  priest — wavering  in  the  dark. 

This  poor  woman !  He  was  conscious  that  her 
statement  of  her  case  had  roused  in  him  a  kind 
of  anger ;  so  passionate  and  unblushing  had  been 
the  egotism  of  her  manner.  Even  after  his  long 
experience  he  felt  in  it  something  monstrous. 
Had  he  been  tender,  patient  enough  ? 

What  troubled  him  was  this  consciousness  of 
the  woinariy  as  apart  from  the  penitent,  which 
had  overtaken  him ;  the  woman  with  her  frail 
physical  health,  possibly  her  terror  of  death,  her 
broken  heart.  New  perplexities  and  compunc- 
tions, not  to  be  felt  within  the  strong  dikes  of 
Catholic  practice,  rushed  upon  him  as  he  sat 
thinking  tinder  the  falling  night.  The  human 
fate  became  more  bewildering,  more  torturing. 
The  clear  landscape  of  Catholic  thought  upon 
which  he  had  once  looked  out  was  wrapping  itself 
in  clouds,  falling  into  new  aspects  and  relations. 
How  marvellous  are  the  chances  of  human  his- 
tory !  The  outward  ministry  had  been  with- 
drawn ;  in  its  stead  this  purely  spiritual  ministry 
had  been  offered  to  him.  "  Doinine,  in  ccelo  mis- 
ericordia  tua—judtcia  tua  abyssus  multa  !'' 
484 


Recalling  what  he  knew  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
history  and  of  Manisty's,  his  mind  trained  in  the 
subtleties  of  moral  divination  soon  reconstructed 
the  whole  story.  Clearly  the  American  lady  now 
staying  with  Mrs.  Burgoyne — who  had  showed 
towards  himself  such  a  young  and  graceful  pity 
— was  the  other  woman. 

He  felt  instinctively  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  would 
approach  him  again,  coldly  as  she  had  parted 
from  him.  She  had  betrayed  to  him  all  the  sick 
confusion  of  soul  that  existed  beneath  her  in- 
tellectual competence  and  vigor.  The  situation 
between  them,  indeed,  had  radically  changed.  He 
laid  aside  deference  and  humility ;  he  took  up 
the  natural  mastery  of  the  priest  as  the  moral 
expert.  She  had  no  faith  ;  and  faith  would  save 
her.  She  was  wandering  in  darkness,  making 
shipwreck  of  herself  and  others.  And  she  had 
appealed  to  him.  With  an  extraordinary  eager- 
ness the  old  man  threw  himself  into  the  task  she 
had  so  strangely  set  him.  He  longed  to  conquer 
and  heal  her ;  to  bring  her  to  faith,  to  sacrifice, 
to  God.  The  mingled  innocence  and  despotism 
of  his  nature  were  both  concerned.  And  was 
there  something  else? — the  eagerness  of  the  sol- 
dier who  retrieves  disobedience  by  some  special 
and  arduous  service  ?  To  be  allowed  to  attempt 
it  is  a  grace ;  to  succeed  in  it  is  pardon. 

Was  she  dying — poor  lady  ! — or  was  it  a  de- 
lusion on  her  part,  one  of  the  devices  of  self- 
pity?  Yet  he  recalled  the  emaciated  face  and 
form,  the  cough,  the  trailing  step,  Miss  Foster's 
485 


anxiety,  some  Comitlents  oVerheard  in  the  vil- 
lage.— 

And  if  she  died  unreconciled,  unhappy  ?  Could 
nothing  be  done  to  help  her,  from  outside, — to 
brace  her  to  action — and  in  time  ? 

He  pondered  the  matter  with  all  the  keenness 
of  the  casuist,  all  the  naivete  of  the  recluse.  In 
the  tragical  uprooting  of  established  habit  through 
which  he  was  passing,  even  those  ways  of  think- 
ing and  acting  which  become  the  second  nat- 
ure of  the  priest  were  somewhat  shaken.  Had 
Eleanor's  confidence  been  given  him  in  Catholic 
confession  he  might  not  even  by  word  or  look 
have  ever  reminded  herself  of  what  had  passed 
between  them ;  still  less  have  acted  upon  it  in 
any  way.  Nor  under  the  weight  of  tradition 
which  binds  the  Catholic  priest,  would  he  ever 
have  been  conscious  of  the  remotest  temptation 
to  what  his  Church  regards  as  one  of  the  deadliest 
of  sins. 

And  further.  If  as  his  penitent,  yet  outside 
confession, — in  a  letter  or  conversation — Eleanor 
had  told  him  her  story,  his  passionately  scrupu- 
lous sense  of  the  priestly  function  would  have 
bound  him  precisely  in  the  same  way.  Here,  all 
Catholic  opinion  would  not  have  agreed  with 
him ;  but  his  own  conviction  would  have  been 
clear. 

But  now  in  the  general  shifting  of  his  life  from 

the  stand-point  of  authority,  to  the  stand-point 

of  conscience,  new  aspects  of  the  case  appeared 

to  him.      He  recalled  certain  questions  of  moral 

486 


theology,  with  which  as  a  student  he  was  familiaf. 
The  modern  discipline  of  the  confessional  "  seal" 
is  generally  more  stringent  than  that  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Benecke  remembered  that  in  the 
view  of  St.  Thomas,  it  is  sometimes  lawful  for  a 
confessor  to  take  account  of  what  he  hears  in 
confession  so  far  as  to  endeavor  afterwards  to 
remove  some  obstacle  to  the  spiritual  progress  of 
his  penitent,  which  has  been  revealed  to  him  un- 
der the  seal.  The  modern  theologian  denies  al- 
together the  legitimacy  of  such  an  act,  which  for 
him  is  a  violation  of  the  sacrament. 

But  for  Benecke,  at  this  moment,  the  tender 
argument  of  St.  Thomas  suddenly  attained  a  new 
beauty  and  compulsion. 

He  considered  it  long.  He  thought  of  Manisty, 
his  friend,  to  whom  his  affectionate  heart  owed 
a  debt  of  gratitude,  wandering  about  Italy,  in  a 
blind  quest  of  the  girl  who  had  been  snatched 
away  from  him.  He  thought  of  the  girl  herself, 
and  the  love  that  not  all  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  jealous 
anguish  had  been  able  to  deny.  And  then  his 
mind  returned  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  and  the  arid 
misery  of  her  struggle. — 

The  darkness  was  falling.  As  he  reached  the 
last  of  the  many  windings  of  the  road,  he  saw 
his  tiny  house  by  the  river-side,  with  a  light  in 
the  window. 

He  leaned  upon  his  stick,  conscious  of  inward 
excitement,  feeling  suddenly  on  his  old  shoulders 
the  burden  of  those  three  lives  of  which  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  had  spoken. 

487 


"  My  God,  give  them  to  me  !" — he  cried,  with  a 
sudden  leap  of  the  heart  that  was  at  once  humble 
and  audacious. 

Not  a  word  to  Mr.  Manisty,  or  to  any  other 
human  being,  clearly,  as  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
presence  at  Torre  Amiata.   To  that  he  was  bound. 

But— 

"  May  I  not  entertain  a  wayfarer,  a  guest  ?"— 
he  thought,  trembling,  "like  any  other  soli- 
tary r 


CHAPTER      XX 

THE  hot  evening  was  passing  into  night. 
Eleanor  and  Lucy  were  on  the  loggia  to- 
gether. 

Through  the  opening  in  the  parapet  wall  made 
by  the  stairway  to  what  had  once  been  the  en- 
closed monastery  garden,  Eleanor  could  see  the 
fire-flies  flashing  against  the  distant  trees  ;  far- 
ther, above  the  darkness  of  the  forest,  ethereal 
terraces  of  dimmest  azure  lost  in  the  starlight; 
and  where  the  mountains  dropped  to  the  south- 
west a  heaven  still  fiery  and  streaked  with 
threats  of  storm.  Had  she  raised  herself  a  little 
she  could  have  traced  far  away,  beyond  the  for- 
est slopes,  the  course  of  those  white  mists  that 
rise  at  night  out  of  the  wide  bosom  of  Bolsena. 

Outside,  the  country  folk  were  streaming  home 
from  their  work  ;  the  men  riding  their  donkeys 
or  mules,  the  women  walking,  often  with  bur- 
dens on  their  heads,  and  children  dragging  at 
their  hands  ;  dim  purplish  figures,  in  the  even- 
ing blue,  charged  with  the  eternal  grace  of  the 
old  Virgilian  life  of  Italy,  the  life  of  corn  and 
vine,  of  chestnut  and  olive.  Lucy  hung  over 
R  489 


the  balcony,  looking  at  the  cavalcades,  some- 
times waving  her  hand  to  a  child  or  a  mother 
that  she  recognized  through  the  gathering  dark- 
ness. It  was  an  evening  spectacle  of  which  she 
never  tired.  Her  feeling  clung  to  these  labor- 
ing people,  whom  she  idealized  with  the  optim- 
ism of  her  clean  youth.  Secretly  her  young 
strength  envied  them  their  primal,  necessary 
toils.  She  would  not  have  shrunk  from  their 
hardships  ;  their  fare  would  have  been  no  griev- 
ance to  her.  Sickness,  old  age,  sin,  cruelty,  vio- 
lence, death,  —  that  these  dark  things  entered 
into  their  lives,  she  knew  vaguely.  Her  heart 
shrank  from  what  her  mind  sometimes  divined*, 
all  the  more  perhaps  that  there  was  in  her  the 
promise  of  a  wide  and  rare  human  sympathy, 
which  must  some  day  find  its  appointed  tasks 
and  suffer  much  in  the  finding.  Now,  when  she 
stumbled  on  the  horrors  of  the  world,  she  would 
cry  to  herself,  "  God  knows  !" — with  a  catching 
breath,  and  the  feeling  of  a  child  that  runs  from 
darkness  to  protecting  arms ;  and  so  escape  her 
pain. 

Presently  she  came  to  sit  by  Eleanor  again, 
trying  to  amuse  her  by  the  account  of  a  talk  on 
the  road-side,  with  an  old  spaccapietre^  or  stone- 
breaker,  who  had  fought  at  Mentana. 

Eleanor  listened  vaguely,  hardly  replying.  But 
she  watched  the  girl  in  her  simple  white  dreas, 
her  fine  head,  her  grave  and  graceful  move- 
ments ;  she  noticed  the  voice,  so  expressive 
of  an  inner  self  -  mastery  through  all  its  gay- 
490 


ety.  And  suddenly  the  thought  flamed  through 
her — 

"If  I  told  her ! — if  she  knew  that  I  had  seen  a 
letter  from  him  this  afternoon? — that  he  is  in 
Italy  ? — that  he  is  looking  for  her^  day  and  night ! 
If  I  just  blurted  it  out — what  would  she  say  ? — 
how  would  she  take  it  ?" 

But  not  a  word  passed  her  lips.  She  began 
again  to  try  and  unravel  the  meaning  of  his  let- 
ter. Why  had  he  gone  in  search  of  them  to  the 
Abruzzi  of  all  places  ? 

Then,  suddenly,  she  remembered. 

One  day  at  the  villa,  some  Italian  friends — a 
deputy  and  his  wife  —  had  described  to  them  a 
summer  spent  in  a  wild  nook  of  the  Abruzzi. 
The  young  husband  had  possessed  a  fine  gift  of 
phrase.  The  mingled  savagery  and  innocence  of 
the  people  ;  the  vast  untrodden  woods  of  chest- 
nut and  beech  ;  the  slowly  advancing  civiliza- 
tion ;  the  new  railway  line  that  seemed  to  the 
peasants  a  living  and  hostile  thing,  a  kind  of 
greedy  fire-monster,  carrying  away  their  pota- 
toes to  market  and  their  sons  to  the  army ; 
the  contrasts  of  the  old  and  new  Italy ;  the  joys 
o£  summer  on  the  heights,  of  an  unbroken  Ital- 
ian sunshine  steeping  a  fresh  and  almost  north- 
ern air  :  he  had  drawn  it  all,  with  the  facility 
of  the  Italian,  the  broken,  impressionist  strokes 
of  the  modern.  Why  must  Italians  nowadays 
always  rush  north,  to  the  lakes,  or  Switzerland 
or  the  Tyrol  ?  Here  in  their  own  land,  in  the 
Abruzzi,  and  farther  south,  in  the  Volscian  and 
491 


Calabrian  mountains,  were  cool  heights  waiting 
to  be  explored,  the  savor  of  a  primitive  life,  the 
traces  of  old  cities,  old  strongholds,  old  faiths,  a 
peasant  world  moreover,  unknown  to  most  Ital- 
ians of  the  west  and  north,  to  be  observed,  to  be 
made  friends  with. 

They  had  all  listened  in  fascination.  Lucy  es- 
pecially. The  thought  of  scenes  so  rarely  seen, 
so  little  visited,  existing  so  near  to  them,  in  this 
old  old  Italy,  seemed  to  touch  the  girl's  imagina- 
tion— to  mingle  as  it  were  a  breath  from  her 
own  New  World  with  the  land  of  the  Caesars. 

"  One  can  ride  everywhere  ?"  she  had  asked, 
looking  up  at  the  traveller. 

"  Everywhere,  mademoiselle." 

"  I  shall  come,"  she  had  said,  drawing  pencil  cir- 
cles on  a  bit  of  paper  before  her,  with  pleased  in- 
tent eyes,  like  one  planning. 

And  the  Italian,  amused  by  her  enthusiasm, 
had  given  her  a  list  of  places  where  accommo- 
dation could  be  got,  where  hotels  of  a  simple  sort 
were  beginning  to  develop,  whence  this  new  land 
that  was  so  old  could  be  explored  by  the  stranger. 

And  Manisty  had  stood  by,  smoking  and  look- 
ing down  at  the  girl's  graceful  head,  and  the 
charming  hand  that  was  writing  down  the  names. 

Another  pang  of  the  past  recalled, — a  fresh  one 
added ! 

For  Torre  Amiata  had  been  forgotten,  while 
Lucy's  momentary  whim  had  furnished  the  clew 
which  had  sent  him  on  his  vain  quest  through 
the  mountains. 

492 


•'  I  do  think  "  —  said  Lucy,  presently,  taking 
Eleanor's  hand, — "  you  haven't  coughed  so  much 
to-day  ?•• 

Her  tone  was  full  of  anxiety,  of  tenderness. 

Eleanor  smiled.  "  I  am  very  well,"  she  said, 
dryly.  But  Lucy's  frown  did  not  relax.  This 
cough  was  a  new  trouble.  Eleanor  made  light  of 
it.  But  Marie  sometimes  spoke  of  it  to  Lucy 
with  expressions  which  terrified  one  who  had 
never  known  illness  except  in  her  mother. 

Meanwhile  Eleanor  was  thinking — ''  Something 
will  bring  him  here.  He  is  writing  to  Father 
Benecke — Father  Benecke  to  him.  Some  accident 
will  happen — any  day,  any  hour.  Well — let  him 
come  !" 

Her  hands  stiffened  under  her  shawl  that  Lucy 
had  thrown  round  her.  A  fierce  consciousness  of 
power  thrilled  through  her  weak  frame.  Lucy 
was  hers  !  The  pitiful  spectacle  of  these  six 
weeks  had  done  its  work.     Let  him  come. 

His  letter  was  not  unhappy  ! — far  from  it.  She 
felt  herself  flooded  with  bitterness  as  she  remem- 
bered the  ardor  that  it  breathed  ;  the  ardor  of  a 
lover  to  whom  effort  and  pursuit  are  joys  only 
second  to  the  joys  of  possession. 

But  some  day  no  doubt  he  would  be  unhappy 
in  earnest ;  if  her  will  held.     But  it  would  hold. 

After  all,  it  was  not  much  she  asked.  She 
might  live  till  the  winter  ;  possibly  a  year.  Not 
long,  after  all,  in  Lucy's  life  or  Manisty's.  Let 
them  only  wait  a  little. 

Her  hand  burned  in  Lucy's  cool  clasp.  Rest- 
493 


lessly,  she  asked  the  girl  some  further  questions 
about  her  walk. 

"  I  met  the  Sisters — the  nuns — from  Selvapen- 
dente,  on  the  hill,"  said  Lucy.  "  Such  sweet  faces 
some  of  them  have." 

"I  don't  agree,"  said  Eleanor  petulantly.  "I 
saw  two  of  them  yesterday.  They  smile  at  you, 
but  they  have  the  narrowest,  stoniest  eyes.  Their 
pity  would  be  very  difficult  to  bear." 

A  few  minutes  later  Lucy  left  her  for  a  moment, 
to  give  a  message  to  Marie. 

"These  Christians  are  hard — hardr  thought 
Eleanor  sharply,  closing  her  tired  lids. 

Had  Father  Benecke  ever  truly  weighed  her 
case,  her  plea  at  all  ?  Never  !  It  had  been  the 
stereotyped  answer  of  the  priest  and  the  preacher. 
Her  secret  sense  resented  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  so  little  moved,  apparently,  by  her  physical 
state.  It  humiliated  her  that  she  should  have 
brought  so  big  a  word  as  death  into  their  debate 
— to  no  effect.  Her  thin  cheek  flushed  with  shame 
and  anger. 

The  cracked  bell  which  announced  their  meals 
tinkled  from  the  sitting-room. 

Eleanor  dragged  herself  to  her  feet,  and  stood 
a  moment  by  the  parapet  looking  into  the 
night. 

"  I  cough  less  ?"  she  thought.  "  Why  ?— for  I 
get  worse  every  day.  That  I  may  make  less 
noise  in  dying  ?  Well !  one  would  like  to  go 
without  ugliness  and  fuss.  I  might  as  well  be 
dead  now,  I  am  so  broken — so  full  of  suffering. 
494 


How  I  hide  it  all  from  that  child  !     And  what  is 
the  use  of  it — of  living  a  single  day  or  hour  more  ?" 

She  was  angry  with  Father  Benecke  ;  but  she 
took  care  to  see  him  again. 

By  means  of  a  little  note  about  a  point  in  the 
article  he  was  just  completing,  she  recalled  him. 

They  met  without  the  smallest  reference  to  the 
scene  which  had  passed  between  them.  He  asked 
for  her  literary  opinion  with  the  same  simplicity, 
the  same  outward  deference  as  before.  She  was 
once  more  the  elegant  and  languid  woman,  no 
writer  herself,  but  born  to  be  the  friend  and  muse 
of  writers.  She  made  him  feel  just  as  clearly  as 
before  the  clumsiness  of  a  phrase,  the  naiveti  of  a 
point  of  view. 

And  yet  in  truth  all  was  changed  between  them. 
Their  talk  ranged  farther,  sank  deeper.  From 
the  controversy  of  science  with  the  Vatican,  from 
the  position  of  the  Old  Catholics,  or  the  triumph 
of  Ultramontanism  in  France,  it  would  drop  of  a 
sudden,  neither  knew  how,  and  light  upon  some 
small  matter  of  conduct  or  feeling,  some  "  flower 
in  the  crannied  wall,"  charged  with  the  profound- 
est  things — things  most  intimate,  most  searching, 
concerned  with  the  eternal  passion  and  trouble 
of  the  human  will,  the  "body  of  this  death,"  the 
"  burden  "  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

Then  the  priest's  gentle  insistent  look  would 

steal  on  hers  ;   he  would  speak  from  his  heart ; 

he  would  reveal  in  a  shrinking  word  or  two  the 

secrets  of  his  own  spiritual  life,  of  that  long  in' 

495 


ner  discipline,  which  was  now  his  only  support  in 
rebellion,  the  plank  between  him  and  the  abyss. 

She  felt  herself  pursued ;  felt  it  with  a  mixture 
of  fear  and  attraction.  She  had  asked  him  to  be 
her  director ;  and  then  refused  his  advice.  She 
had  tried  to  persuade  him  that  she  was  a  sceptic 
and  unbeliever.  But  he  had  not  done  with  her. 
She  divined  the  ardor  of  the  Christian  ;  perhaps 
the  acuteness  of  the  ecclesiastic.  Often  she  was 
not  strong  enough  to  talk  to  him,  and  then  he 
read  to  her — the  books  that  she  allowed  him  to 
choose.  Through  a  number  of  indirect  and  grad- 
ual approaches  he  laid  siege  to  her,  and  again  and 
again  did  she  feel  her  heart  fluttering  in  his  grasp, 
only  to  draw  it  back  in  fear,  to  stand  once  more 
on  a  bitter  unspoken  defence  of  herself  that  would 
not  yield.  Yet  he  recognized  in  her  the  approach 
of  some  crisis  of  feeling.  She  seemed  herself  to 
suspect  it,  and  to  be'  trying  to  ward  it  off,  in  a 
kind  of  blind  anguish.  Nothing  meanwhile  could 
be  more  touching  than  the  love  between  her  and 
Lucy.     The  old  man  looked  on  and  wondered. 

Day  after  day  he  hesitated.  Then  one  evening, 
in  Lucy's  absence,  he  found  her  so  pale,  and  racked 
with  misery — so  powerless  either  to  ask  help,  or 
to  help  herself,  so  resolute  not  to  speak  again,  so 
clearly  tortured  by  her  own  coercing  will,  that  his 
hesitation  gave  way. 

He  walked  down  the  hill,  in  a  trance  of  prayer. 
When  he  emerged  from  it  his  mind  was  made  up. 

In  the  days  that  followed  he  seemed  to  Eleanor 
496 


often  agitated  and  ill  at  ease.  She  was  puzzled, 
too,  by  his  manner  towards  Lucy.  In  truth,  he 
watched  Miss  Foster  with  a  timid  anxiety,  trying 
to  penetrate  her  character,  to  divine  how  pres- 
ently she  might  feel  towards  him.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  but  he  was  sometimes 
afraid  of  this  girl  with  her  clear,  candid  eyes. 
Her  fresh  youth,  and  many  of  her  American 
ways  and  feelings  were  hard  for  him  to  under- 
stand. She  showed  him  friendship  in  a  hundred 
pretty  ways  ;  and  he  met  her  sometimes  eagerly, 
sometimes  with  a  kind  of  shamefacedness. 

Soon  he  began  to  neglect  his  work  of  a  morn- 
ing that  he  might  wander  out  to  meet  the  post- 
man beyond  the  bridge.  And  when  the  man 
passed  him  by  with  a  short  "  Non  c'  e  niente," 
the  priest  would  turn  homeward,  glad  almost 
that  for  one  day  more  he  was  not  called  upon  to 
face  the  judgment  in  Lucy  Foster's  face  on  what 
he  had  done. 

The  middle  of  July  was  past.  The  feast  of  Our 
Lady  of  Mount  Carmel  had  come  and  gone,  bring- 
ing processions  and  music,  with  a  Madonna  under 
a  gold  baldachino,  to  glorify  the  little  deserted 
chapel  on  the  height. 

Eleanor  had  watched  the  crowds  and  banners, 
the  red-robed  Compagni  di  Gesti,  the  white  priests, 
and  veiled  girls,  with  a  cold  averted  eye.  Lucy 
looked  back  with  a  pang  to  Marinata,  and  to  the 
indulgent  pleasure  that  Eleanor  had  once  taken 
in  all  the  many -colored  show  of  Catholicism, 
497 


Now  she  was  always  weary,  and  often  fretful.  It 
struck  Lucy  too  that  she  was  more  restless  than 
ever.  She  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  the  pres- 
ent— to  be  always  living  in  the  future— expecting, 
listening,  waiting.  The  gestures  and  sudden  looks 
that  expressed  this  attitude  of  mind  were  often  of 
the  weirdest  effect.  Lucy  could  have  thought 
her  haunted  by  some  unseen  presence.  Physi- 
cally she  was  not,  perhaps,  substantially  worse. 
But  her  state  was  more  appealing,  and  the  girl's 
mind  towards  her  more  pitiful  day  by  day. 

One  thing,  however,  she  was  determined  on. 
They  would  not  spend  August  at  Torre  Amiata. 
It  would  need  stubbornness  with  Eleanor  to  bring 
her  to  the  point  of  change.  But  stubbornness 
there  should  be. 

One  morning,  a  day  or  two  after  the  festa,  Lucy 
left  Eleanor  on  the  loggia^  while  she  herself  ran 
out  for  a  turn  before  their  mid-day  meal.  There 
had  been  fierce  rain  in  the  morning,  and  the  sky 
was  still  thick  with  thunder  clouds  promising 
more. 

She  escaped  into  a  washed  and  cooled  world. 
But  the  thirsty  earth  had  drunk  the  rain  at  a 
gulp.  The  hill  which  had  been  running  with 
water  was  almost  dry,  the  woods  had  ceased  to 
patter  ;  on  all  sides  could  be  felt  the  fresh  restor- 
ing impulse  of  the  storm.  Nature  seemed  to  be 
breathing  from  a  deeper  chest — shaking  her  free 
locks  in  a  wilder,  keener  air  —  to  a  long- silent 
music  from  the  quickened  river  below. 

Lucy  almost  ran  down  the  hill,  so  great  was 
498 


the  physical  relief  of  the  rain  and  the  cloudy 
morning.  She  needed  it.  Her  spirits,  too,  had 
been  uneven,  her  cheek  paler  of  late. 

She  wore  a  blue  cotton  dress,  fitting  simply 
and  closely  to  the  young  rounded  form.  Round 
her  shapely  throat  and  the  lace  collar  that  show- 
ed Eleanor's  fancy  and  seemed  to  herself  a  little 
too  elaborate  for  the  morning,  she  wore  a  child's 
coral  necklace — a  gleam  of  red  between  the  abun- 
dant black  of  her  hair  and  the  soft  blue  of  her 
dress.  Her  hat,  a  large  Leghorn,  with  a  rose  in 
it,  framed  the  sweet  gravity  of  her  face.  She 
was  more  beautiful  than  when  she  had  said 
good-bye  to  Uncle  Ben  on  the  Boston  platform. 
But  it  was  a  beauty  that  for  his  adoring  old  heart 
would  have  given  new  meaning  to  "  that  sad  word 

Joy." 

She  turned  into  the  Sassetto  and  pushed  up- 
ward through  its  tumbled  rocks  and  trees  to 
the  seat  commanding  the  river  and  the  moun- 
tains. 

As  she  approached  it,  she  was  thinking  of 
Eleanor  and  the  future,  and  her  eyes  were  ab- 
sently bent  on  the  ground. 

But  a  scent  familiar  and  yet  strange  distracted 
her.  Suddenly,  on  the  path  in  front  of  the  seat, 
she  saw  a  still  burning  cigarette,  and  on  the  seat 
a  book  lying. 

She  stopped  short  ;  then  sank  upon  the  seat, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  book. 

It  was  a  yellow-bound  French  novel,  and  on 
the  outside  was  written  in  a  hand  she  knew,  a 
499 


name  that  startled  every  pulse  in  her  young 
body. 

His  hook?  And  that  cigarette?  Father  Be- 
necke  neither  smoked  nor  did  he  read  French 
novels. 

Beyond  the  seat  the  path  branched,  upward 
to  the  Palazzo,  and  downward  to  the  river.  She 
rose  and  looked  eagerly  over  its  steep  edge  into 
the  medley  of  rock  and  tree  below.  She  saw 
nothing,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  the  distance 
she  heard  voices  talking — receding. 

They  had  left  the  seat  only  just  in  time  to 
escape  her.  Mr.  Manisty  had  forgotten  his  book  ! 
Careless  and  hasty — how  well  she  knew  the  trait ! 
But  he  would  miss  it — he  would  come  back. 

She  stood  up  and  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts. 
If  he  was  here,  he  was  with  Father  Benecke.  So 
the  priest  had  betrayed  the  secret  he  had  prom- 
ised Mrs.  Burgoyne  to  keep  ? 

No,  no  ! — that  was  impossible  !  It  was  chance 
— unkind,  unfriendly  chance. 

And  yet  ? — as  she  bit  her  lip  in  fear  or  bewilder- 
ment, her  heart  was  rising  like  the  Paglia  after 
the  storm — swelling,  thundering  within  her. 

"What  shall  I  — what  shall  I  do?"  she  cried 
under  her  breath,  pressing  her  hands  to  her  eyes. 

Then  she  turned  and  walked  swiftly  home- 
ward. Eleanor  must  not  know — must  not  see 
him.  The  girl  was  seized  with  panic  terror  at 
the  thought  of  what  might  be  the  effect  of  any 
sudden  shock  upon  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

Half-way  up  the  hill,  she  stopped  involuntarily, 
Soo 


wringing  her  hands  in  front  of  her.  It  was  the 
thought  of  Manisty  not  half  a  mile  away,  of  his 
warm,  living  self  so  close  to  her  that  had  swept 
upon  her,  like  a  tempest  wind  on  a  young  oak. 

"Oh  !  I  mustn't — mustn't — be  glad  !"  she  cried, 
gulping  down  a  sob,  hating,  despising  herself. 

Then  she  hurried  on.  With  every  step,  she 
grew  more  angry  with  Father  Benecke.  At 
best,  he  must  have  been  careless,  inconsiderate. 
A  man  of  true  delicacy  would  have  done  more 
than  keep  his  promise,  would  have  actively  pro- 
tected them. 

That  he  had  kept  the  letter  of  his  promise  was 
almost  proved  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Manisty  had 
not  yet  descended  upon  the  convent.  For  what 
could  it  mean — his  lingering  in  Italy  —  but  a 
search,  a  pursuit  ?  Her  cheek  flamed  guiltily 
over  the  certainty  thus  borne  in  upon  her.  But 
if  so,  what  could  hold  back  his  impetuous  will — 
but  ignorance?  He  could  not  know  they  were 
there.     That  was  clear. 

So  there  was  time — a  chance.  Perhaps  Father 
Benecke  was  taken  by  surprise  too — puzzled  to 
know  what  to  do  with  him?  Should  she  write 
to  the  priest ;  or  simply  keep  Eleanor  in-doors 
and  watch  ? 

At  thought  of  her,  the  girl  lashed  herself  into 
an  indignation,  an  anguish  that  sustained  her. 
After  devotion  so  boundless,  service  so  measure- 
less—  so  lightly,  meagrely  repaid  —  were  Mrs. 
Burgoyne's  peace  and  health  to  be  again  in 
peril  at  her  cousin's  hands  ? 
501 


Luckily  Eleanor  showed  that  day  no  wish  to 
move  from  her  sofa.  The  storm  had  shaken  her, 
given  her  a  headache,  and  she  was  inclined  to 
shiver  in  the  cooler  air. 

After  luncheon  Lucy  coaxed  her  to  stay  in 
one  of  the  inner  rooms,  where  there  was  a  fire- 
place ;  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  the  road. 
Marie  made  a  fire  on  the  disused  hearth  of  what 
had  once  been  an  infirmary  cell.  The  logs 
crackled  merrily  ;  and  presently  the  rain  stream- 
ed down  again  across  the  open  window. 

Lucy  sat  sewing  and  reading  through  the  after- 
noon in  a  secret  anguish  of  listening.  Every  sound 
in  the  corridor,  every  sound  from  down  -  stairs, 
excited  the  tumult  in  the  blood.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?"  Eleanor  would  say,  reaching 
out  first  to  pinch,  then  to  kiss  the  girl's  cheek. 
"  It  is  all  very  well  that  thunder  should  set  a 
poor  wretch  like  me  on  edge — but  you  !  Any- 
way it  has  given  you  back  your  color.  You  look 
superbly  well  this  afternoon." 

And  then  she  would  fall  to  gazing  at  the  girl 
under  her  eyebrows  with  that  little  trick  of  the 
bitten  lip,  and  that  piteous  silent  look,  that  Lucy 
could  hardly  bear. 

The  rain  fell  fast  and  furious.  They  dined  by 
the  fire,  and  the  night  fell. 

"  Clearing  —  at  last,"  said  Eleanor,  as  they 
pushed  back  their  little  table,  and  she  stood  by 
the  open  window,  while  Cecco  was  taking  away 
the  meal ;  "  but  too  late  and  too  wet  for  me." 

An  hour  later  indeed  the  storm  had  rolled 
502 


away,   and  a  bright    and  rather   cold  starlight 
shone  above  the  woods. 

"  Now  I  understand  Aunt  Pattie's  tales  of  fires 
at  Sorrento  in  August,"  said  Eleanor,  crouching 
over  the  hearth.  "  This  blazing  Italy  can  touch 
you  when  she  likes  with  the  chilliest  fingers. 
Poor  peasants  !  —  are  their  hearts  lighter  to- 
night ?  The  rain  was  fierce,  but  mercifully  there 
was  no  hail.  Down  below  they  say  the  harvest 
is  over.  Here  they  begin  next  week.  The  storm 
has  been  rude — but  not  ruinous.  Last  year  the 
hail-storms  in  September  stripped  the  grape  ;  de- 
stroyed half  their  receipts  —  and  pinched  their 
whole  winter.  They  will  think  it  all  comes  of 
their  litanies  and  banners  the  other  day.  If  the 
vintage  goes  well  too,  perhaps  they  will  give  the 
Madonna  a  new  frock.  How  simple ! — how  sat- 
isfying !" 

She  hung  over  the  blaze,  with  her  little  pensive 
smile,  cheered  physically  by  the  warmth,  more 
ready  to  talk,  more  at  ease  than  she  had  been  for 
days.  Lucy  looked  at  her  with  a  fast-beating 
heart.  How  fragile  she  was,  how  lovely  still,  in 
the  half-light ! 

Suddenly  Eleanor  turned  to  her,  and  held  out  her 
arms.  Lucy  knelt  down  beside  her,  trembling 
lest  any  look  or  word  should  betray  the  secret 
in  her  heart.  But  Eleanor  drew  the  girl  to  her, 
resting  her  cheek  tenderly  on  the  brown  head. 

"  Do  you  miss  your  mother  very  much  ?"  she 
said  softly,  turning  her  lips  to  kiss  the  girl's  hair. 
**  I  know  you  do.     I  see  it  in  you,  often." 
503 


Lucy's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  pressed 
Eleanor's  hand  without  speaking.  They  clung 
together  in  silence,  each  mind  full  of  thoughts 
unknown  to  the  other.  But  Eleanor's  features 
relaxed ;  for  a  little  while  she  rested,  body  and 
mind.  And  as  Lucy  lingered  in  the  clasp  thrown 
round  her,  she  seemed  for  the  first  time  since  the 
old  days  at  the  villa  to  be  the  cherished,  and  not 
the  cherisher. 

Eleanor  went  early  to  bed,  and  then  Lucy  took 
a  warm  shawl  and  paced  up  and  down  the  loggia 
in  a  torment  of  indecision.  Presently  she  was 
attracted  by  the  little  wooden  stair  which  led 
down  from  the  loggia  to  what  had  once  been  the 
small  walled  garden  of  the  convent,  where  the 
monks  of  this  austere  order  had  taken  their  ex- 
ercise in  sickness,  or  rested  in  the  sun,  when  ex- 
treme old  age  debarred  them  from  the  field-labor 
of  their  comrades. 

The  garden  was  now  a  desolation,  save  for  a 
tangle  of  oleanders  and  myrtle  in  its  midst.  But 
the  high  walls  were  still  intact,  and  an  old 
wooden  door  on  the  side  nearest  to  the  forest. 
Beneath  the  garden  was  a  triangular  piece  of 
open  grass -land  sloping  down  towards  the  en- 
trance of  the  Sassetto  and  bounded  on  one  side 
by  the  road. 

Lucy  wandered  up  and  down,  in  a  wild  trance 

of  feeling.    Half  a  mile  away  was  he  sitting  with 

Father  Benecke  ?  —  winning  perhaps  their  poor 

secret  from  the  priest's  incautious  lips?    With 

504 


what  eagle  quickness  could  he  pounce  on  a  sign, 
an  indication  !  And  then  the  flash  of  those  tri- 
umphant eyes,  and  the  onslaught  of  his  will  on 
theirs .' 

Hark  !    She  caught  her  breath. 

Voices  I  Two  men  were  descending  the  road. 
She  hurried  to  hide  her  white  dress,  close,  under 
the  wall — she  strained  every  sense. 

The  sputter  of  a  match — the  trail  of  its  scent 
in  the  heavy  air — an  exclamation. 

"  Father  ! — wait  a  moment !  Let  me  light  up. 
These  matches  are  damp.  Besides  I  want  to 
have  another  look  at  this  old  place " 

The  steps  diverged  from  the  road ;  approached 
the  lower  wall  of  the  garden.  She  pressed  her- 
self against  its  inner  surface,  trembling  in  every 
limb.  Only  the  old  door  between  her  and  them  ! 
She  dared  not  move— but  it  was  not  only  fear  of 
discovery  that  held  her.  It  was  a  mad  uncon- 
trollable joy,  that  like  a  wind  on  warm  embers, 
kindled  all  her  being  into  flame. 

"One  more  crime — that! — of  your  Parliamen- 
tary Italy  !  What  harm  had  the  poor  things  done 
that  they  should  be  turned  out?  You  heard 
what  that  Carabiniere  said?  —  that  they  farmed 
half  the  plateau.  And  now  look  at  that !  I  feel 
as  I  do  when  I  see  a  blackbird's  nest  on  the 
ground,  that  some  beastly  boy  has  been  robbing 
and  destroying.     I  want  to  get  at  the  boy." 

"The  boy  would  plead  perhaps  that  the  black- 
birds were  too  many — and  the  fruit  too  scant.  Is 
it  wise,  my  dear  sir,  to  stand  there  in  the  damp  ?" 
S05 


The  voice  was  pitched  low.  Lucy  detected  the 
uneasiness  of  the  speaker. 

'''  One  moment.  You  remember,  I  was  here 
before  in  November.  This  summer  night  is  a 
new  impression.  What  a  pure  and  exquisite 
air  !" — Lucy  could  hear  the  long  inhalation  that 
followed  the  words.  "  I  recollect  a  vague  notion 
of  coming  to  read  here.  The  massaja  told  us 
they  took  in  people  for  the  summer.  Ah  ! 
There  are  some  lights,  I  see,  in  those  upper 
windows." 

"There  are  rooms  in  several  parts  of  the 
building.  Mine  were  in  that  farther  wing.  They 
were  hardly  water-tight,"  said  the  priest  hastily, 
and  in  the  same  subdued  voice. 

*'  It  is  a  place  that  one  might  easily  rest  in — 
or  hide  in,"  said  Manisty  with  a  new  accent  on 
the  last  words.  "  To-morrow  morning  I  will  ask 
the  woman  to  let  me  walk  through  it  again. — 
And  to-morrow  mid-day,  I  must  be  off." 

''^  So  soon  ?  My  old  Francesca  will  owe  you  a 
grudge.  She  is  almost  reconciled  to  me  because 
you  eat — because  you  praised  her  omelet." 

"  Ah  !  Francesca  is  an  artist.  But — as  I  told 
you — I  am  at  present  a  wanderer  and  a  pilgrim. 
We  have  had  our  talk  —  you  and  I  —  grasped 
hands,  cheered  each  other,  *  passed  the  time  of 
day,'  und  welter  noch — noch  welter — meln  treuer 
Wanderstab  r 

The  words  fell  from  the  deep  voice  with  a  rich 
significant  note.     Lucy  heard  the  sigh,  the  im- 
patient, despondent  sigh,  that  followed. 
506 


They  moved  away.  The  whiffs  of  tobacco  still 
came  back  to  her  on  the  light  westerly  wind; 
the  sound  of  their  voices  still  reached  her  covet- 
ous ear.     Suddenly  all  was  silent. 

She  spread  her  hands  on  the  door  in  a  wild 
groping  gesture. 

"  Gone  I  gone  !'*  she  said  under  her  breath. 
Then  her  hands  dropped,  and  she  stood  motion- 
less, with  bent  head,  till  the  moment  was  over, 
and  her  blood  tamed. 


M- 


CHAPTER     XXI 

ASO  !  look  here !"  said  Lucy,  address- 
ing a  small  boy,  who  with  his  brother 
was  driving  some  goats  along  the  road. 

She  took  from  a  basket  on  her  arm,  first  some 
pasticceria,  then  a  square  of  chocolate,  lastly  a 
handful  of  soldi. 

"You  know  the  casetta  by  the  river  where 
Mamma  Brigitta  lives  ?" 

*'  Yes."  The  boy  looked  at  her  with  his  sharp 
stealthy  eyes. 

"  Take  down  this  letter  to  Mamma  Brigitta. 
If  you  wait  a  little,  she'll  give  you  another  letter 
in  exchange,  and  if  you  bring  it  up  to  me,  you 
shall  have  all  those  !" 

And  she  spread  out  her  bribes. 

The  boys'  faces  were  sulky.  The  house  by  the 
river  was  unpopular,  owing  to  its  tenant.  But 
the  temptation  was  of  a  devilish  force.  They 
took  the  letter  and  scampered  down  the  hill 
driving  their  goats  before  them. 

Lucy  also  walked  down  some  three  or  four  of 
the  innumerable  zigzags  of  the  road.  Presently 
she  found  a  rocky  knoll  to  the  left  of  it.  A  gap 
508 


in  the  trees  opened  a  vision  of  the  Amiata  range, 
radiantly  blue  under  a  superb  sky,  a  few  shreds 
of  moving  mist  still  wrapped  about  its  topmost 
peaks.  She  took  her  seat  upon  a  moss-covered 
stone  facing  the  road  which  mounted  towards  her. 
But  some  bushes  of  tall  heath  and  straggling 
arbutus  made  a  light  screen  in  front  of  her.  She 
saw,  but  she  could  hardly  be  seen,  till  the  passer- 
by coming  from  the  river  was  close  upon  her. 

She  sat  there  with  her  hands  lightly  crossed 
upon  her  knees,  holding  herself  a  little  stiffly — 
waiting. 

The  phrases  of  her  letter  ran  in  her  head.  It 
had  been  short  and  simple. — "Dear  Father  Be- 
necke, — I  have  reason  to  know  that  Mr.  Manisty 
is  here — is  indeed  staying  with  you.  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  is  not  aware  of  it,  and  I  am  anxious  that 
she  should  not  be  told.  She  wishes — as  I  think 
she  made  clear  to  you — to  be  quite  alone  here, 
and  if  she  desired  to  see  her  cousins  she  would  of 
course  have  written  to  them  herself.  She  is  too 
ill  to  be  startled  or  troubled  in  any  way.  Will 
you  do  us  a  great  kindness  ?  Will  you  persuade 
Mr.  Manisty  to  go  quietly  away  without  letting 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  know  that  he  has  been  here? 
Please  ask  him  to  tell  Miss  Manisty  that  we  shall 
not  be  here  much  longer,  that  we  have  a  good 
doctor,  and  that  as  Torre  Amiata  is  on  the  hills 
the  heat  is  not  often  oppressive." 

.  .  .  The  minutes  passed  away.  Presently  her 
thoughts  began  to  escape  the  control  she  had  put 
upon  them;  and  she  felt  herself  yielding  to  a 
509 


sense  of  excitement.  She  resolutely  took  a  book 
of  Italian  stories  from  the  bottom  of  her  basket, 
and  began  to  read. 

At  last!  the  patter  of  the  goats  and  the  shouts 
of  the  boys. 

They  rushed  upon  her  with  the  letter.  She 
handed  over  their  reward  and  broke  the  seal. 

"  Hochgeehrtes  Fraulein, — 

"  It  is  true  that  Mr.  Manisty  is  here.  I  too  am 
most  anxious  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  should  not  be 
startled  or  disturbed.  But  I  distrust  my  own 
diplomacy ;  nor  have  I  yet  mentioned  your  pres- 
ence here  to  my  guest.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  do 
so,  having  given  my  promise  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 
Will  you  not  see  and  speak  to  Mr.  Manisty  your- 
self ?  He  talks  of  going  up  this  morning  to  see 
the  old  convent.  I  cannot  prevent  him,  without 
betraying  what  I  have  no  right  to  betray.  At 
present  he  is  smoking  in  my  garden.  But  his 
carriage  is  ordered  from  Selvapendente  two  hours 
hence.  If  he  does  go  up  the  hill,  it  would  surely 
be  easy  for  you  to  intercept  him.  If  not,  you 
may  be  sure  that  he  has  left  for  Orvieto." 

Lucy  read  the  letter  with  a  flush  and  a  frown. 
It  struck  her  that  it  was  not  quite  simple  ;  that 
the  priest  knew  more,  and  was  more  concerned  in 
the  new  turn  of  events  than  he  avowed. 

She  was  well  aware  that  he  and  Eleanor  had 

had  much  conversation  ;   that  Eleanor  was  still 

possessed  by  the  same  morbid  forces  of  grief  and 

anger  which,  at  the  villa,  had  broken  down  all  her 

510 


natural  reticence  and  self-control.  Was  it  pos- 
sible  ? 

Her  cheek  flamed.  She  felt  none  of  that  spell 
in  the  priestly  office  which  affected  Eleanor.  The 
mere  bare  notion  of  being  "  managed  "  by  this 
kind  old  priest  was  enough  to  rouse  all  her  young 
spirit  and  defiance. 

But  the  danger  was  imminent.  She  saw  what 
she  must  do,  and  prepared  herself  to  do  it — sim- 
ply, without  any  further  struggle. 

The  little  goatherds  left  her,  munching  their 
cakes  and  looking  back  at  her  from  time  to  time 
in  a  childish  curiosity.  The  pretty  blue  lady  had 
seated  herself  again  as  they  had  found  her — a  few 
paces  from  the  road-side,  under  the  thick  shadow 
of  an  oak. 

Meanwhile,  Manisty  was  rejoined  by  Father 
Benecke — who  had  left  him  for  a  few  minutes  to 
write  his  letter  —  beside  the  Paglia,  which  was 
rushing  down  in  a  brown  flood,  after  the  rain  of 
the  day  before.  Around  and  above  them,  on 
either  side  of  the  river,  and  far  up  the  flanks  of 
the  mountains  opposite,  stretched  the  great  oak 
woods,  which  are  still  to-day  the  lineal  progeny  of 
that  vast  Ciminian  forest  where  lurked  the  earli- 
est enemies  of  Rome. 

"But  for  the  sun,  it  might  be  Wales!"  said  Man- 
isty, looking  round  him,  as  he  took  out  anothef 
cigarette. 

Father  Benecke  made  no  reply.  He  sat  on  a 
rock  by  the  water's  side,  in  what  seemed  to  be  a 
5n 


reverie.  His  fine  white  head  was  uncovered.  His 
attitude  was  gentle,  dignified,  abstracted. 

"  It  is  a  marvellous  country  this !"  Manisty  re- 
sumed. ''  I  thought  I  knew  it  pretty  well.  But 
the  last  five  weeks  have  given  one's  mind  a  new 
hold  upon  it.  The  forests  have  been  wasted — 
but  by  George! — what  forests  there  are  still!  — 
and  what  a  superb  mountain  region^  half  of  which 
is  only  known  to  a  few  peasants  and  shepherds. 
What  rivers  —  what  fertility  —  what  a  climate! 
And  the  industry  of  the  people.  Catch  a  few 
English  farmers  and  set  them  to  do  what  the 
Italian  peasant  does,  year  in  and  year  out,  with- 
out a  murmur  I  Look  at  all  the  coast  south  of 
Naples.  There  is  not  a  yard  of  it,  scarcely,  that 
hasn't  been  7nade  by  human  hands.  Look  at  the 
hill-towns  ;  and  think  of  the  human  toil  that  has 
gone  to  the  making  and  maintaining  of  them 
since  the  world  began." 

And  swaying  backward  and  forward  he  fell 
into  the  golden  lines  : 

Adde  tot  egregias  urbes,  operumque  laborem, 
Tot  congesta  manu  prseruptis  oppida  saxis, 
Fluminaque  antiquos  subterlabentia  muros. 

"  Congesta  manu  !  Ecco  !  —  there  they  are  " — 
and  he  pointed  down  the  river  to  the  three  or 
four  distant  towns,  each  on  its  mountain  spur, 
that  held  the  valley  between  them  and  Orvieto 
—  pale  jewels  on  the  purple  robe  of  rock  and 
wood. 

"So  Virgil  saw  them.  So  the  latest  sons  of 
512 


time  shall  see  them — the  homes  of  a  race  that 
we  chatter  about  without  understanding  —  the 
most  laborious  race  in  the  wide  world." 

And  again  he  rolled  out  under  his  breath,  for 
the  sheer  joy  of  the  verse : 

Salve,  magna  parens  frugum,  Saturnia  tellus, 
Magna  virum. 

The  priest  looked  at  him  with  a  smile ;  preoc- 
cupied yet  shrewd. 

"  I  follow  you  with  some  astonishment.  Surely 
— I  remember  other  sentiments  on  your  part  ?" 

Manisty  colored  a  little,  and  shook  his  black 
head,  protesting. 

"  I  never  said  uncivil  things,  that  I  remember, 
about  Italy  or  the  Italians  as  such.  My  quarrel 
was  with  the  men  that  run  them,  the  governments 
that  exploit  them.  My  point  was  that  Piedmont 
and  the  North  had  been  too  greedy,  had  laid 
hands  too  rapidly  on  the  South  and  had  risked 
this  damnable  quarrel  with  the  Church,  without 
knowing  what  they  were  running  their  heads 
into.  And  in  consequence  they  found  them- 
selves— in  spite  of  rivers  of  corrupt  expenditure — 
without  men,  or  money,  or  credit  to  work  their  big 
new  machine  with;  while  the  Church  was  always 
there,  stronger  than  ever  for  the  grievance  they 
had  presented  her  with,  and  turned  into  an  enemy 
with  whom  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  parley. 
Well ! — that  struck  me  as  a  good  object-lesson. 
I  wanted  to  say  to  the  secularizing  folk  every- 
where— England  included — just  come  here,  and 
513 


look  what  your  policy  comes  to,  when  it's  carried 
out  to  the  bitter  end,  and  not  in  the  gingerly, 
tinkering  fashion  you  affect  at  home !  Just  un- 
derstand what  it  means  to  separate  Church  from 
State,  to  dig  a  gulf  between  the  religious  and  the 
civil  life. — Here's  a  country  where  nobody  can 
be  at  once  a  patriot  and  a  good  Christian — where 
the  Catholics  don't  vote  for  Parliament,  and  the 
State  schools  teach  no  religion — where  the  nation 
is  divided  into  two  vast  camps,  hating  and  thrust- 
ing at  each  other  with  every  weapon  they  can 
tear  from  life.  Examine  it !  That's  what  the 
thing  looks  like  when  it's  full-grown.  Is  it  prof 
itable — does  it  make  for  good  times?  In  your 
own  small  degree,  are  you  going  to  drive  England 
that  way  too? — You'll  admit,  Father — you  always 
did  admit — that  it  was  a  good  theme." 

The  priest  smiled — a  little  sadly. 

"  Excellent.  Only— you  seemed  to  me — a  little 
irresponsible." 

Manisty  nodded,  and  laughed. 

"  An  outsider,  with  no  stakes  on  ?  Well — that's 
true.  But  being  a  Romantic  and  an  artist  I 
sided  with  the  Church.  The  new  machine,  and 
the  men  that  were  running  it,  seemed  to  me  an 
ugly  jerry-built  affair,  compared  with  the  Papacy 
and  all  that  it  stood  for.     But  then " 

— He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  one  hand  snatcl^- 
ing  and  tearing  at  the  bushes  round  him,  in  his 
absent,  destructive  way. — 

"  Well,  then  —  as  usual  —  facts  began  to  play 
the  mischief  with  one's  ideas.     In  the  first  place, 
5H 


as  one  lives  on  in  Italy  you  discover  the  antiquity 
of  this  quarrel ;  that  it  is  only  the  Guelf  and 
Ghibelline  quarrel  over  again,  under  new  names. 
And  in  the  next — presently  one  begins  to  divine 
an  Italy  behind  the  Italy  we  know,  or  history 
knows! — Voices  come  to  one,  as  Goethe  would 
say,  from  the  caves  where  dwell  '  Die  Mutter  ' — 
the  creative  generative  forces  of  the  coun- 
try."- 

He  turned  his  flashing  look  on  Benecke,  pleased 
now  as  always  with  the  mere  task  of  speech. 

"Anyway,  as  I  have  been  going  up  and  down 
their  country,  especially  during  the  last  six 
weeks ;  prating  about  their  poverty,  and  their 
taxes,  their  corruption,  the  incompetence  of  their 
leaders,  the  folly  of  their  quarrel  with  the  Church  ; 
I  have  been  finding  myself  caught  in  the  grip  of 
things  older  and  deeper — incredibly,  primevally 
old ! — that  still  dominate  everything,  shape  every- 
thing here.  There  are  forces  in  Italy,  forces  of 
land  and  soil  and  race — only  now  fully  let  loose 
— that  will  remake  Church  no  less  than  State,  as 
the  generations  go  by.  Sometimes  I  have  felt 
as  though  this  country  were  the  youngest  in 
Europe ;  with  a  future  as  fresh  and  teeming  as 
the  future  of  America.  And  yet  one  thinks  of 
it  at  other  times  as  one  vast  graveyard ;  so  thick 
it  is  with  the  ashes  and  the  bones  of  men !  The 
Pope  —  and  Crispi ! — waves,  both  of  them,  on  a 
sea  of  life  that  gave  them  birth,  *  with  equal 
mind ' ;  and  that  with  equal  mmd  will  sweep 
them  both  to  its  own  goal — not  theirs." 
515 


He  smiled  at  his  own  eloquence,  and  returned 
to  his  cigarette. 

The  priest  had  listened  to  him  all  through 
with  the  same  subtle  embarrassed  look. 

"This  must  have  some  cause,"  he  said  slowly, 
when  Manisty  ceased  to  speak.  "  Surely  ? — this 
change?  I  recall  language  so  different — fore- 
casts so  gloomy." 

"  Gracious ! — I  can  give  you  books-full  of  them," 
said  Manisty,  reddening,  "  if  you  care  to  read 
them.  I  came  out  with  a  parti- pris — I  don't 
deny  it.  Catholicism  had  a  great  glamour  for 
me  ;  it  has  still,  so  long  as  you  don't  ask  me  to 
put  my  own  neck  under  the  yoke  !  But  Rome 
itself  is  disenchanting.  And  outside  Rome  ! — 
During  the  last  six  weeks  I  have  been  talking  to 
every  priest  I  could  come  across  in  these  remote 
country  districts  where  I  have  been  wandering. 
Perdio  ! — Marcello  used  to  talk — I  didn't  believe 
him.  But  upon  my  word,  the  young  fellows 
whom  the  seminaries  are  now  sending  out  in 
shoals  represent  a  fact  to  give  one  pause  ! — Little 
black  devils  ! — Scusi  I  Father, — the  word  escaped 
me.  Broadly  speaking,  they  are  a  political  mili- 
tia,— little  else.  Their  hatred  of  Italy  is  a  venom 
in  their  bones,  and  they  themselves  are  mad  for 
a  spiritual  tyranny  which  no  modern  State  could 
tolerate  for  a  week.  When  one  thinks  of  the 
older  men — of  Rosmini,  of  Gioberti,  of  the  priests 
who  died  on  the  Milan  barricades  in  '48  !" 

His  companion  made  a  slow  movement  of  as- 
sent. 

516 


Manisty  smoked  on,  till  presently  he  launched 
the  mot  for  which  he  had  been  feeling.  "The 
truth  of  the  matter  seems  to  be  that  Italy  is 
Catholic,  because  she  hasn't  faith  enough  to 
make  a  heresy ;  and  anti-clerical,  because  it  is 
her  destiny  to  be  a  nation !" 

The  priest  smiled,  but  with  a  certain  languor, 
turning  his  head  once  or  twice  as  though  to  listen 
for  sounds  behind  him,  and  taking  out  his  watch. 
His  eyes  meanwhile — and  their  observation  of 
Manisty — were  not  languid ;  seldom  had  the  mild 
and  spiritual  face  been  so  personal,  so  keen. 

"Well, it  is  a  great  game,"  said  Manisty  again 
— "and  we  sha'n't  see  the  end.  Tell  me — how 
have  they  trea.ted  j/ou — the  priests  in  these  parts?" 

Benecke  started  and  shrank. 

"  I  have  no  complaint  to  make,"  he  said  mildly. 
"They  seem  to  me  good  men." 

Manisty  smoked  in  silence. 

Then  he  said,  as  though  summing  up  his  own 
thoughts, — 

"  No, — there  are  plenty  of  dangers  ahead.  This 
war  has  shaken  the  Sabaudisti — for  the  moment. 
Socialism  is  serious.  —  Sicily  is  serious.  —  The 
economic  difficulties  are  serious. — The  House  of 
Savoy  will  have  a  rough  task,  perhaps,  to  ride 
the  seas  that  may  come. — But  Italy  is  safe.  You 
can  no  more  undo  what  has  been  done  than  you 
can  replace  the  child  in  the  womb.  The  birth  is 
over.  The  organism  is  still  weak,  but  it  lives. 
And  the  forces  behind  it  are  indefinitely,  mys- 
teriously stronger  than  the  Vatican  thinks." 
517 


"A  great  recantation,"  said  the  priest  quickly. 

Manisty  winced,  but  for  a  while  said  nothing. 
All  at  once  he  jerked  away  his  cigarette. 

"  Do  you  suspect  some  other  reason  for  it,  than 
the  force  of  evidence?"  —  he  said,  in  another 
manner. 

The  priest,  smiling,  looked  him  full  in  the  face 
without  replying, 

"You  may,"  said  Manisty,  coolly.  "I  sha'n't 
play  the  hypocrite.  Father,  I  told  you  that  I 
had  been  wandering  about  Italy  on  a  quest  that 
was  not  health,  nor  piety,  nor  archaeology.  How 
much  did  you  guess?" 

"  Naturally,  something — lieber  Herr^ 

*'  Do  you  know  that  I  should  have  been  at 
Torre  Amiata  weeks  ago  but  for  you?" 

"  For  me !     You  talk  in  riddles." 

"Very  simple.  Your  letters  might  have  con- 
tained a  piece  of  news — and  did  not.  Yet  if  it 
had  been  there  to  give,  you  would  have  given  it. 
So  I  crossed  Torre  Amiata  off  my  list.  No  need 
to  go  there  !  I  said  to  myself." 

The  priest  was  silent. 

Manisty  looked  up.  His  eyes  sparkled;  his 
lips  trembled  as  though  they  could  hardly  bring 
themselves  to  launch  the  words  behind  them. 

"Father — ^^you  remember  a  girl — at  the  villa?" 

The  priest  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"Well — I  have  been  through  Italy— with  that 

girl's  voice  in  my  ears — and.  as  it  were,  her  eyes 

rather  than  my  own.     I  have  been  searching  for 

her  for  weeks.     She  has  hidden  herself  from  me. 

518 


But  i  shall  find  her  ! — now  or  later — here  or  else- 
where." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"Well,  then,  —  I  shall  know  some  *  eventful 
living ' !" 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  And  you  hope  for  success  ?" 

"  Hope  ?"  said  Manisty,  passionately.  "  I  live 
on  something  more  nourishing  than  that!" 

The  priest  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"  You  are  so  certain  ?" 

"I  must  be  certain" — said  Manisty,  in  a  low 
voice,  — "  or  in  torment !  I  prefer  the  cer- 
tainty." 

His  face  darkened.  In  its  frowning  disorgan- 
ization his  companion  saw  for  the  first  time  a 
man  hitherto  unknown  to  him,  a  man  who  spoke 
with  the  dignity,  the  concentration,  the  simplicity 
of  true  passion. 

Dignity  !  The  priest  recalled  the  voice,  the 
looks  of  Eleanor  Burgoyne.  Not  a  word  for  her 
— not  a  thought !  His  old  heart  began  to  shrink 
from  his  visitor,  from  his  own  scheme. 

"  Then  how  do  you  explain  the  young  lady's 
disappearance  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

Manisty  laughed.     But  the  note  was  bitter. 

"  Father  ! — I  shall  make  her  explain  it  herself." 

"She  is  not  alone?" 

"  No — my  cousin  Mrs.  Burgoyne  is  with  her." 

Benecke  observed  him,  appreciated  the  stiffen- 
ing of  the  massive  shoulders. 

"  I  heard  from  some  friends  in  Rome,"  said  the 
519 


priest,  after  a  moment — "  distressing  accounts  of 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  health." 

Manisty's  look  was  vague  and  irresponsive. 

"  She  was  always  delicate,"  he  said  abruptly, — 
not  kindly. 

"  What  makes  you  look  for  them  in  Italy  ?" 

"Various  causes.  They  would  think  themselves 
better  hidden  from  their  English  friends,  in  Italy 
than  elsewhere,  at  this  time  of  year.  Besides,  I 
remember  one  or  two  indications " 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Manisty 
sprang  up. 

"  How  long,  did  you  say,  before  the  trap  came  ? 
An  hour  and  a  half  ?" 

"  Hardly,"  said  the  priest,  unwillingly,  as  he 
drew  out  his  watch. — "And  you  must  give  your- 
self three  hours  to  Orvieto " 

"Time  enough.  I'll  go  and  have  a  look  at 
those  frescoes  again — and  a  chat  with  the  woman. 
Don't  interrupt  yourself.  I  shall  be  back  in  half 
an  hour." 

"  Unfortunately  I  must  write  a  letter,"  said  the 
priest. 

And  he  stood  at  the  door  of  his  little  bandbox 
of  a  house,  watching  the  departure  of  his  guest. 

Manisty  breasted  the  hill,  humming  as  he 
walked.  The  irregular  vigorous  form,  the  no- 
bility and  animation  of  his  carriage  drew  the 
gaze  of  the  priest  after  him. 

"At  what  point" — he  said  to  himself, — "will 
he  find  her  ?" 

520 


CHAPTER     XXII 

ELEANOR  did  not  rise  now,  as  a  rule,  till 
half-way  through  the  morning.  Lucy  had 
left  her  in  bed. 

It  was  barely  nine  o'clock.  Every  eastern  or 
southern  window  was  already  fast  closed  and 
shuttere<J,  but  her  doot  stood  open  to  the  loggia 
into  which  no  sun  penetrated  till  the  afternoon. 

A  fresh  breeze,  which  seemed  the  legacy  of  the 
storm,  blew  through  the  doorway.  Framed  in 
the  yellow  arches  of  the  loggia  she  saw  two  cy- 
presses glowing  black  upon  the  azure  blaze  of 
the  sky.  And  in  front  of  them,  springing  frotn 
a  pot  on  the  loggia,  the  straggly  stem  and  rosy 
bunches  of  an  oleander.  From  a  distance  the 
songs  of  harvesters  at  their  work  ;  and  close  by, 
the  green  nose  of  a  lizard  peeping  round  the  ^^%t, 
of  the  door. 

Eleanor  seemed  to  herself  to  have  just  awak- 
ened from  sleep ;  yet  not  from  unconsciousness. 
She  had  a  confused  memory  of  things  which  had 
passed  in  sleep -^of  emotions  and  experiences. 
Her  heart  was  beating  fast,  and  as  she  sat  up, 
she  caught  her  own  reflection  in  the  cracked 
s  521 


glass  on  the  dressing-table.     Startled,  she  put  up 
her  hand  to  her  flushed  cheek.     It  was  wet. 

"  Crying  !"  she  said,  in  wonder — "  what  have  I 
been  dreaming  about  ?  And  why  do  I  feel  like 
this  ?    What  is  the  matter  with  me  ?" 

After  a  minute  or  two,  she  rang  a  hand-bell 
beside  her,  and  her  maid  appeared. 

"  Marie,  I  am  so  well — so  strong  !  It  is  extraor- 
dinary !  Bring  everything.  I  should  like  to  get 
up." 

The  maid,  in  fear  of  Lucy,  remonstrated.  But 
her  mistress  prevailed. 

"  Do  my  hair  as  usual  to-day,"  she  said,  as  soon 
as  that  stage  of  her  toilette  was  reached,  and 
she  was  sitting  in  her  white  wrapper  before  the 
cracked  glass. 

Marie  stared. 

"  It  will  tire  you,  madame." 

"  No,  it  won't.     Maisfaites  vite  r 

Ever  since  their  arrival  at  Torre  Amiata  Elea- 
nor had  abandoned  the  various  elaborate  coiffures 
in  which  she  had  been  wont  to  appear  at  the  villa. 
She  would  allow  nothing  but  the  simplest  and 
rapidest  methods ;  and  Marie  had  been  secretly 
alarmed  lest  her  hand  should  lose  its  cunning. 

So  that  to-day  she  coiled,  crimped,  curled  with 
a  will.  When  she  had  finished,  Eleanor  surveyed 
herself  and  laughed. 

''''Ah!  mats  vraiment^ Marie ^  tu  es  merveilleuse ! 
What  is  certain  is   that  neither  that  glass  nor 
Torre  Amiata  is  worthy  of  it.     NHmporte.     One 
must  keep  up  standards." 
522 


"  Certainly,  madame,  you  look  better  to-day.** 

"  I  slept.  Why  did  I  sleep  ?  I  can't  imagine. 
After  all,  Torre  Amiata  is  not  such  a  bad  place 
— is  it  Marie  ?" 

And  with  a  laugh,  she  lightly  touched  her  maid's 
cheek. 

Marie  looked  a  little  sullen. 

"  It  seems  that  madame  would  like  to  live  and 
die  here." 

She  had  no  sooner  said  the  words  than  she 
could  have  bitten  her  tongue  out.  She  was  gen- 
uinely attached  to  her  mistress  ;  and  she  knew 
well  that  Eleanor  was  no  malade  imaginaire. 

Eleanor's  face  changed  a  little. 

"  Oh  !  you  foolish  girl — we  shall  soon  be  gone. 
No,  not  that  old  frock.  Look,  please,  at  that 
head  you've  made  me — and  consider !  Noblesse 
obliged 

So  presently,  she  stood  before  her  table  in  a 
cream  walking-dress — perfect — but  of  the  utmost 
simplicity  ;  with  her  soft  black  hat  tied  round 
the  ripples  and  clouds  of  her  fair  hair. 

"  How  it  hangs  on  me  !"  she  said,  gathering 
up  the  front  of  her  dress  in  her  delicate  hand. 

Marie  made  a  little  face  of  pity  and  concern. 

"  Mais  oui^  madaine.  II  faitdrait  le  cacher  tin 
peur 

"Padding?  Tiens!  fen  ai  deja.  But  if  Ma- 
thilde  were  to  put  any  more,  there  would  be 
nothing  else.  One  day,  Marie,  you  see,  there 
will  be  only  my  clothes  left  to  walk  about — by 
their  little  selves  !" 

523 


She  smiled.  The  maid  said  nothing.  She  was 
on  her  knees  buttoning  her  mistress's  shoes. 

"  Now  then — firii  !  Take  all  those  books  on  to 
the  loggia  and  arrange  my  chair.  I  shall  be  there 
directly." 

The  maid  departed.  Eleanor  sat  down  to  rest 
from  the  fatigue  of  dressing. 

*'  How  weak  I  am  ! — weaker  than  last  month. 
And  next  month  it  will  be  a  little  more — and  a 
little  more — then  pain  perhaps  —  horrid  pain — 
and  one  day  it  will  be  impossible  to  get  up — and 
all  one's  poor  body  will  fail  one  like  a  broken 
vessel.  And  then — relief  perhaps — if  dying  is  as 
easy  as  it  looks.  No  more  pangs  or  regrets — 
and  at  the  end,  either  a  sudden  puff  that  blows 
out  the  light— or  a  quiet  drowning  in  deep  waters 
— without  pain.  .  .  .  And  to  -  day  how  little  I 
fear  it!" 

A  prie-dieu  chair,  old  and  battered  like  every- 
thing else  in  the  convent,  was  beside  her,  and 
above  it  her  child's  portrait.  She  dropped  upon 
her  knees,  as  she  always  did  for  a  minute  or 
two  morning  and  evening,  mostly  out  of  child- 
ish habit. 

But  her  thoughts  fell  into  no  articulate  words. 
Her  physical  weakness  rested  against  the  chair ; 
but  the  weakness  of  the  soul  seemed  also  to  rest 
on  some  invisible  support. 

"  What   is  the  matter  with  me  to-day  ?" — she 

asked  herself  again,  in  bewilderment.     "  Is  it  an 

omen — a  sign  ?     All  bonds  seem  loosened — the 

air  lighter.     What    made  me  so  miserable   yes- 

524 


terday  ?  I  wanted  him  to  come— and  yet  dreaded 
— dreaded  it  so  !  And  now  to-day  I  don't  care— 
I  don't  care !" 

She  slipped  into  a  sitting  position  and  looked 
at  the  picture.  A  tiny  garland  of  heath  and 
myrtle  was  hung  round  it.  The  little  fellow 
seemed  to  be  tottering  towards  her,  the  eyes  a 
little  frightened,  yet  trusting,  the  gait  unsteady. 

"  Childie  !" — she  said  in  a  whisper,  smiling  at 
him—"  Childie !" 

Then  with  a  long  sigh,  she  rose,  and  feebly 
made  her  way  to  the  loggia. 

Her  maid  was  waiting  for  her.  But  Eleanor 
refused  her  sofa.  She  would  sit,  looking  out 
through  the  arches  of  the  loggia^  to  the  road, 
and  the  mountains. 

"  Miss  Foster  is  a  long  time,"  she  said  to 
Marie.  "  It  is  too  hot  for  her  to  be  out.  And 
how  odd !  There  is  the  Contessa's  carriage — 
and  the  Contessa  herself  —  at  this  time  of  day. 
Run,  Marie!  Tell  her  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
see  her.  And  bring  another  comfortable  chair — 
there's  a  dear." 

The  Contessa  mounted  the  stone  stairs  with 
the  heavy  masculine  step  that  was  characteristic 
of  her. 

"  Vous  permettes,  madame  /" — she  said,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  — "  at  this  unseasonable 
hour." 

Eleanor  made  her  welcome.  The  portly  Con- 
tessa seated  herself  with  an  involuntary  gesture 
of  fatigue. 

525 


"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?"  said  Eleanor. 
"If  you  have  been  helping  the  harvesters 7>/r^- 
tester 

She  laid  her  hand  laughingly  on  the  Contessa's 
knee.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  Contessa  knew 
far  more  of  the  doings  and  affairs  of  her  contadini 
than  did  the  rather  magnificent  fattore  of  the 
estate.  She  was  in  and  out  among  them  per- 
petually. She  quarrelled  with  them  and  hectored 
them ;  she  had  as  good  a  command  of  the  local 
dialect  as  they  had ;  and  an  eye  that  pounced  on 
cheating  like  an  osprey  on  a  fish.  Nevertheless, 
as  she  threw  in  yet  another  evident  trifle — that 
she  cared  more  for  them  and  their  interests  than 
for  anything  else  in  the  world,  now  that  her  son 
was  gone — they  endured  her  rule,  and  were  not 
actively  ungrateful  for  her  benefits.  And,  in  her 
own  view  at  any  rate,  there  is  no  more  that  any 
rich  person  can  ask  of  any  poor  one  till  another 
age  of  the  world  shall  dawn. 

She  received  Eleanor's  remark  with  an  em- 
barrassed air. 

"  I  have  been  doctoring  an  ox,"  she  said,  blunt- 
ly, as  though  apologizing  for  herself.  "  It  was 
taken  ill  last  night,  and  they  sent  for  me." 

"  But  you  are  too,  too  wonderful !"  cried 
Eleanor  in  amusement.  "Is  it  all  grist  that 
comes  to  your  mill — sick  oxen — or  humans  like 
me?" 

The  Contessa  smiled,  but  she  turned  away  her 
head. 

"  It  was  Emilio's  craze,"  she  said  abruptly. 
526 


*'  He  knew  every  animal  on  the  place.  In  his 
regiment  they  called  him  the  *vet,'  because  he 
was  always  patching  up  the  sick  and  broken 
mules.  One  of  his  last  messages  to  me  was  about 
an  old  horse.  He  taught  me  a  few  things — and 
sometimes  I  am  of  use — till  the  farrier  comes." 

There  was  a  little  silence,  which  the  Contessa 
broke  abruptly. 

"  I  came,  however,  madame,  to  tell  you  some- 
thing about  myself.  Teresa  has  made  up  her 
mind  to  leave  me." 

"  Your  daughter  ?"  cried  Eleanor  amazed. 
"  Fiancee  V 

The  Contessa  shook  her  head. 

"  She  is  about  to  join  the  nuns  of  Santa  Fran- 
cesca.  Her  novitiate  begins  in  October.  Now 
she  goes  to  stay  with  them  for  a  few  weeks." 

Eleanor  was  thunderstruck. 

"  She  leaves  you  alone  ?" 

The  Contessa  mutely  assented. 

"  And  you  approve  ?"  said  Eleanor  hotly. 

"She  has  a  vocation  " — said  the  Contessa  with 
a  sigh. 

"  She  has  a  mother  !"  cried  Eleanor. 

"  Ah  !  madame — you  are  a  Protestant.  These 
things  are  in  our  blood.  When  we  are  devout, 
like  Teresa,  we  regard  the  convent  as  the  gate  of 
heaven.  When  we  are  Laodiceans — like  me — we 
groan,  and  we  submit." 

"  You  will  be  absolutely  alone,"  said  Eleanor, 
in  a  low  voice  of  emotion,  "  in  this  solitary 
place." 

527 


The  Contessa  fidgeted.  She  was  of  the  sort 
that  takes  pity  hardly. 

"  There  is  much  to  do/' — she  said,  shortly. 

But  then  her  fortitude  a  little  broke  down. 
**  If  I  were  ten  years  older,  it  would  be  all  right," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  the  mind's 
fatigue  with  its  own  debate.  "  It's  the  time  it 
all  lasts;  when  you  are  as  strong  as  I  am." 

Eleanor  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Do  you  never  take  quite  another  line  ?"  she 
said,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Do  you  never  say — 
*  This  is  my  will,  and  I  mean  to  have  it !  I  have 
as  much  right  to  my  way  as  other  people  ?'  Have 
you  never  tried  it  with  Teresa  ?" 

The  Contessa  opened  her  eyes. 

"  But  I  am  not  a  tyrant,"  she  said,  and  there 
was  just  a  touch  of  scorn  in  her  reply. 

Eleanor  trembled. 

"  We  have  so  few  years  to  live  and  be  happy  in," 
she  said  in  a  lower  voice,  a  voice  of  self-defence. 

"  That  is  not  how  it  appears  to  me,"  said  the 
Contessa  slowly.  "  But  then  I  believe  in  a  future 
life." 

"And  you  think  it  wrong  ever  to  press  —  to 
insist  upon  —  the  personal,  the  selfish  point  of 
view?" 

The  Contessa  smiled. 

"  Not  so  much  wrong,  as  futile.  The  world  is 
not  made  so — chere  madamer 

Eleanor  sank  back  in  her  chair.  The  Contessa 
observed  her  emaciation,  her  pallor  —  and  the 
pretty  dress. 

528 


She  remembered  her  friend's  letter,  and  the 
"  Signer  Manisty  "  who  should  have  married  this 
sad,  charming  woman,  and  had  not  done  so.  It 
was  easy  to  see  that  not  only  disease  but  grief 
was  preying  on  Mrs.  Burgoyne.  The  Contessa 
was  old  enough  to  be  her  mother.  A  daughter 
whom  she  had  lost  in  infancy  would  have  been 
Eleanor's  age,  if  she  had  lived. 

"  Madame,  let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice  " 
— she  said  suddenly,  taking  Eleanor's  hands  in 
both  her  own  — "leave  this  place.  It  does  not 
suit  you.  These  rooms  are  too  rough  for  you — 
or  let  me  carry  you  off  to  the  Palazzo,  where  I 
could  look  after  you." 

Eleanor  flushed. 

"  This  place  is  very  good  for  me,"  she  said  with 
a  wild  fluttering  breath.  "  To-day  I  feel  so  much 
better — so  much  lighter  !" 

The  Contessa  felt  a  pang.  She  had  heard  other 
invalids  say  such  things  before.  The  words  rang 
like  a  dirge  upon  her  ear.  They  talked  a  little 
longer.  Then  the  Contessa  rose,  and  Eleanor 
rose,  too,  in  spite  of  her  guest's  motion  to  restrain 
her. 

As  they  stood  together  the  elder  woman  in  her 
strength  suddenly  felt  herself  irresistibly  drawn 
towards  the  touching  weakness  of  the  other.  In- 
stead of  merely  pressing  hands,  she  quicl^ly  threvv^ 
her  strong  arms  round  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  gathered 
her  for  an  instant  to  her  broad  breast,  and  kissed 
her. 

Eleanor  leaned  against  her,  sighing  : 
529 


"  A  vocation  wouldn't  drag  me  away,"  she  said 
gently. 
And  so  they  parted. 

Eleanor  hung  over  the  loggia  and  watched  the 
Contessa's  departure.  As  the  small  horses  trot- 
ted away,  with  a  jingling  of  bells  and  a  fluttering 
of  the  furry  tails  that  hung  from  their  ears,  the 
padre  parroco  passed.  He  took  off  his  hat  to  the 
Contessa,  then  seeing  Mrs.  Burgoyne  on  the  log- 
gia^ he  gave  her,  too,  a  shy  but  smiling  salutation. 

His  lithe  figure,  his  young  and  dreamy  air, 
suited  well  with  the  beautiful  landscape  through 
which  it  passed.  Shepherd  ?  or  poet  1  Eleanor 
thought  of  David  among  the  flocks. 

"  He  only  wants  the  crook  —  the  Scriptural 
crook.     It  would  go  quite  well  with  the  soutane." 

Then  she  became  aware  of  another  figure  ap- 
proaching on  her  right  from  the  piece  of  open 
land  that  lay  below  the  garden. 

It  was  Father  Benecke,  and  he  emerged  on  the 
road  just  in  front  of  the  padre  parrgco. 

The  old  priest  took  off  his  hat.  Eleanor  saw 
the  sensitive  look,  the  slow  embarrassed  gesture. 
The  padre  parroco  passed  without  looking  to  the 
right  or  left.  All  the  charming  pliancy  of  the 
young  figure  had  disappeared.  It  was  drawn  up 
to  a  steel  rigidity. 

Eleanor  smiled  and  sighed. 

"David  among  the  Philistines!  —  Ce  pauvre 
Goliath  !     Ah  !  he  is  coming  here  ?" 

She  withdrew  to  her  sofa,  and  waited. 
53? 


Marie,  after  instructions,  and  with  that  auster- 
ity of  demeanor  which  she,  too,  never  failed  to 
display  towards  Father  Benecke,  introduced  the 
visitor. 

"  Entrez,  mon  pere,  entrez,"  said  Eleanor,  hold- 
ing out  a  friendly  hand.  "Are  you,  too,  braving 
the  sun?  Did  you  pass  Miss  Foster  ?  I  wish  she 
would  come  in — it  is  getting  too  hot  for  her  to  be 
out." 

"Madame,  I  have  not  been  on  the  road.  I 
came  around  through  the  Sassetto.  There  I 
found  no  one." 

"  Pray  sit  down.  Father.  That  chair  has  all  its 
legs.     It  comes  from  Orvieto." 

But  he  did  not  accept  her  invitation — at  least 
not  at  once.  He  remained  hesitating — looking 
down  upon  her.  And  she,  struck  by  his  silence, 
struck  by  his  expression,  felt  a  sudden  seizing  of 
the  breath.  Her  hand  slid  to  her  heart,  with  its 
fatal,  accustomed  gesture.  She  looked  at  him 
wildly,  imploringly. 

But  the  pause  came  to  an  end.  He  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"  Madame,  you  have  taken  so  kind  an  interest 
in  my  unhappy  affairs  that  you  will  perhaps  al- 
low me  to  tell  you  of  the  letter  that  has  reached 
me  this  morning.  One  of  the  heads  of  the  Old 
Catholic  community  invites  me  to  go  and  consult 
with  them  before  deciding  on  the  course  of  my 
future  life.  There  are  many  difficulties.  I  am 
not  altogether  in  sympathy  with  them.  A  mar- 
ried priesthood  such  as  they  have  now  adopted, 
531 


is  in  my  eyes  a  priesthood  shorn  of  its  strength. 
But  the  invitation  is  so  kind,  so  brotherly,  I  must 
needs  accept  it." 

He  bent  forward,  looking  not  at  her,  but  at  the 
brick  floor  of  the  loggia.  Eleanor  offered  a  few- 
words  of  sympathy ;  but  felt  there  was  more  to 
come. 

"  I  have  also  heard  from  my  sister.  She  refuses 
to  keep  my  house  any  longer.  Her  resentment 
at  what  I  have  done  is  very  bitter  —  apparently 
insurmountable.  She  wishes  to  retire  to  a  coun- 
try place  in  Bavaria  where  we  have  some  rela- 
tions. She  has  a  small  rente^  and  will  not  be  in 
any  need." 

"And  you?"  said  Eleanor  quickly. 

*'  I  must  find  work,  madame.  My  book  will 
bring  me  in  a  little,  they  say.  That  will  give  me 
time — and  some  liberty  of  decision.  Otherwise 
of  course  I  am  destitute.  I  have  lost  everything. 
But  my  education  will  always  bring  me  enough 
for  bread.     And  I  ask  no  more." 

Her  compassion  was  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  too — old  and  alone — like  the  Contessa  !" 
she  said  under  her  breath. 

He  did  not  hear.  He  was  pursuing  his  own 
train  of  thought,  and  presently  he  raised  himself. 
Never  had  the  apostolic  dignity  of  his  white  head, 
his  broad  brow  been  more  commanding.  But 
what  Eleanor  saw,  what  perplexed  her,  was  the 
subtle  tremor  of  the  lip,  the  doubt  in  the  eyes. 

"  So  you  see,  madame,  our  pleasant  hours  are 

almost  over.     In  a  few  days  I  must  be  gone.    I 

532  ) 


will  not  attempt  to  express  what  I  owe  to  your 
most  kind,  most  indulgent  sympathy  It  seems 
to  me  that  in  the  '  dark  wood '  of  my  life  it  was 
your  conversation — when  my  heart  was  so  sorely 
cast  down — which  revived  my  intelligence — and 
so  held  me  up,  till — till  I  could  see  my  way,  and 
choose  my  path  again.  It  has  given  me  a  great 
many  new  ideas — this  companionship  you  have 
permitted  me.  I  humbly  confess  that  I  shall  al- 
ways henceforward  think  differently  of  women, 
and  of  the  relations  that  men  and  women  may 
hold  to  one  another.     But  then,  madame ^" 

He  paused.  Eleanor  could  see  his  hand  trem- 
bling on  his  knee. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow 

"  Father  Benecke  !  you  have  something  to  say 
to  me !" 

He  hurried  on. 

"  The  other  day  you  allowed  us  to  change  the 
roles.  You  had  been  my  support.  You  threw 
yourself  on  mine.  Ah  !  madame,  have  I  been  of 
any  assistance  to  you  —  then,  and  in  the  inter- 
views you  have  since  permitted  me?  Have  I 
strengthened  your  heart  at  all  as  you  strength- 
ened mine  ?" 

His  ardent,  spiritual  look  compelled — and  re- 
assured her. 

She  sank  back.  A  tear  glittered  on  her  brown 
lashes.     She  raised  a  hand  to  dash  it  away. 

"I  don't  know,  Father  —  I  don't  know.  But 
to-day — for  some  mysterious  reason — I  seem  al- 
most to  be  happy  again.  I  woke  up  with  the 
533 


feeling  of  one  who  had  been  buried  under  moun- 
tains of  rocks  and  found  them  rolled  away ;  of 
one  who  had  been  passing  through  a  delirium 
which  was  gone.  I  seem  to  care  for  nothing — to 
grieve  for  nothing.  Sometimes  you  know  that 
happens  to  people  who  are  very  ill.  A  numb- 
ness comes  upon  them. — But  I  am  not  numb.  I 
feel  everything.  Perhaps,  Father"  —  and  she 
turned  to  him  with  her  old  sweet  instinct — of  one 
who  loved  to  be  loved — "  perhaps  you  have  been 
praying  for  me?" 

She  smiled  at  him  half  shyly.  But  he  did  not 
see  it.     His  head  bent  lower  and  lower. 

"  Thank  God !"  he  said,  with  the  humblest  em- 
phasis. "  Then,  madame — perhaps — you  will  find 
the  force — to  forgive  me  !" 

The  words  were  low — the  voice  steady. 

Eleanor  sprang  up. 

"  Father  Benecke  ! — what  have  you  been  do- 
ing?    Is — is  Mr.  Manisty  here?" 

She  clung  to  the  loggia  parapet  for  support. 
The  priest  looked  at  her  pallor  with  alarm,  with 
remorse,  and  spoke  at  once. 

"  He  came  to  me  last  night." 

Their  eyes  met,  as  though  in  battle — expressed 
a  hundred  questions — a  hundred  answers.  Then 
she  broke  the  silence. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  said  imperiously.  "Ah! — 
I  see — I  see !" 

She  sat  down,  fronting  him,  and  panting  a 
little. 

"  Miss  Foster  is  not  with  me.  Mr.  Manisty  is 
534 


not  with  you.  The  inference  is  easy. — And  you 
planned  it !  You  took — you  dared  to  take — as 
much  as  this— into  your  own  hands !" 

He  made  no  reply.  He  bent  like  a  reed  in  the 
storm. 

*'  There  is  no  boldness  like  a  saint's  " — she  said 
bitterly, — "  no  hardness— like  an  angel's  I  What 
I  would  not  have  ventured  to  do  with  my  closest 
friend,  my  nearest  and  dearest — you— a  stranger 
— have  done — with  a  light  heart.  Oh !  it  is  mon- 
strous ! — monstrous !" 

She  moved  her  neck  from  side  to  side  as  though 
she  was  suffocating  —  throwing  back  the  light 
ruffle  that  encircled  it. 

"A  stranger?" — he  said  slowly.  His  intense 
yet  gentle  gaze  confronted  hers. 

"You  refer,  I  suppose,  to  that  most  sacred, 
most  intimate  confidence  I  made  to  you? — which 
no  man  of  honor  or  of  heart  could  have  possibly 
betrayed,"  —  she  said  passionately.  "Ah!  you 
did  well  to  warn  me  that  it  was  no  true  confession 
— under  no  true  seal!  You  should  have  warned 
me  further — more  effectually." 

Her  paleness  was  all  gone.  Her  cheeks  flamed. 
The  priest  felt  that  she  was  beside  herself,  and, 
traversed  as  his  own  mind  was  with  the  most 
poignant  doubts  and  misgivings,  he  must  needs 
wrestle  with  her,  defend  himself. 

"  Madame ! — you  do  me  some  wrong,"  he  said 
hurriedly.     "  At  least  in  words  I  have  told  noth- 
ing— betrayed  nothing.     When  I  left  him  an  hour 
ago  Mr.  Manisty  had  no  conception  that  you  were 
535 


here.  After  my  first  letter  to  him,  he  tells  me 
that  he  relinquished  the  idea  of  coming  to  Torre 
Amiata,  since  if  you  had  been  staying  here,  I 
must  have  mentioned  it." 

Eleanor  paused.  "Subterfuge!"  she  cried, 
under  her  breath.  Then,  aloud — "You  asked 
him  to  come." 

"  That,  madame,  is  my  crime,"  he  admitted, 
with  a  mild  and  painful  humility.  "  Your  anger 
hits  me  hard.  But  —  do  you  remember?  —  you 
placed  three  lives  in  my  hands.  I  found  you 
helpless ;  you  asked  for  help.  I  saw  you  day  by 
day,  more  troubled,  yet,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  more 
full  of  instincts  towards  generosity,  towards 
peace.  I  felt  —  oh !  madame,  I  felt  with  all  my 
heart,  that  there  lay  just  one  step  between  you 
and  a  happiness  that  would  compensate  you  a 
thousand  times  for  all  you  had  gone  through. 
You  say  that  I  prayed  for  you.  I  did — often — 
and  earnestly.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that — in 
our  later  conversations  —  I  saw  such  signs  of 
grace  in  you — such  exquisite  dispositions  of  the 
heart — that  were  the  chance  of  action  once  more 
given  to  you— you  would  find  the  strength  to 
seize  the  blessing  that  God  offered  you.  And 
one  evening  in  particular,  I  found  you  in  an 
anguish  that  seemed  to  be  destroying  you.  And 
you  had  opened  your  heart  to  me;  you  had  asked 
my  help  as  a  Christian  priest.  And  so,  madame, 
as  you  say — I  dared.  I  said,  in  writing  to  Mr. 
Manisty,  who  had  told  me  he  was  coming  north- 
ward— *if  Torre  Amiata  is  not  far  out  of  your 
536 


road —  look  in  upon  me.'  Neither  your  name 
nor  Miss  Foster's  passed  my  lips.  But  since — I 
confess  —  I  have  lived  in  much  disturbance  of 
mind!" 

Eleanor  laughed. 

"Are  all  priests  as  good  casuists  as  you, 
Father?" 

His  eyes  wavered  a  little  as  though  her  words 
stung.     But  he  did  not  reply. 

There  was  a  pause.  Eleanor  turned  towards 
the  parapet  and  looked  outward  towards  the  road 
and  the  forest.  Her  face  and  eyes  were  full  of 
an  incredible  animation ;  her  lips  were  lightly 
parted  to  let  the  quick  breath  pass. 

Then  of  a  sudden  she  withdrew.  Her  eyes 
moved  back  to  Father  Benecke ;  she  bent  for- 
ward and  held  out  both  her  hands. 

*^  Father — I  forgive  you  !    Let  us  make  peace." 

He  took  the  small  fingers  into  his  large  palms 
with  a  gratitude  that  was  at  once  awkward  and 
beautiful. 

"I  don't  know  yet"  —  he  said,  in  a  deep  per- 
plexity— "  whether  I  ab.solve  myself." 

"You  will  soon  know,"  she  said  almost  with 
gayety.  "  Oh  !  it  is  quite  possible  " — she  threw 
up  one  hand  in  a  wild  childish  gesture — "it  is 
quite  possible  that  to-morrow  I  may  be  at  your 
feet,  asking  you  to  give  me  penance  for  my 
rough  words.  On  the  other  hand  —  Anyway, 
Father,  you  have  not  found  me  a  very  dutiful 
penitent?" 

"I  expected  castigation,"  he  said  meekly.  "If 
537 


the  castigation  is  done,  I  have  come  off  better 
than  I  could  have  hoped." 

She  raised  herself,  and  took  up  her  gloves  that 
were  lying  on  the  little  table  beside  her  sofa. 

"  You  see  " — she  said,  talking  very  fast — "  I  am 
an  Englishwoman,  and  my  race  is  not  a  docile 
one.  Here,  in  this  village,  I  have  noticed  a  good 
deal,  and  the  massaja  gossips  to  me.  There  was 
a  fight  in  the  street  the  other  night.  The  men 
were  knifing  each  other.  The  parroco  sent  them 
word  that  they  should  come  at  once  to  his  house 
^per  pacificarli.  They  went.  There  is  a  girl, 
living  with  her  sister,  whose  husband  has  a  bad 
reputation.  The  parroco  ordered  her  to  leave — 
found  another  home  for  her.  She  left.  There 
is  a  lad  who  made  some  blasphemous  remarks  in 
the  street  on  the  day  of  the  Madonna's  procession. 
T\\Q  parroco  ordered  him  to  do  penance.  He  did 
it.  But  those  things  are  not  English.  Perhaps 
they  are  Bavarian?" 

He  winced,  but  he  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure. 

"Yes,  madame,  they  afe  Bavarian  also.  But 
it  seems  that  even  an  Englishwoman  can  some- 
times feel  the  need  of  another  judgment  than 
her  own?" 

She  smiled.  All  the  time  that  she  had  made 
her  little  speech  about  the  village,  she  had  been 
casting  quick  glances  along  the  road.  It  was 
evident  that  her  mind  was  only  half  employed 
with  what  she  was  saying.  The  rose-flush  in  her 
cheekSvthe  dainty  dress,  the  halo  of  fair  hair  gave 
538 


her  back  youth  and  beauty ;  and  the  priest  gazed 
at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  Ah  !" — she  said,  with  a  vivacity  that  was  al- 
most violence — *'  here  she  is.  Father — please !" 

And  with  a  peremptory  gesture,  she  signed  to 
him  to  draw  back,  as  she  had  done,  into  the  shad- 
ow, out  of  sight  of  the  road. 

But  the  advancing  figure  was  plain  to  both  of 
them. 

Lucy  mounted  the  hill  with  a  slow  and  tired 
step.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  ground.  The  whole 
young  form  drooped  under  the  heat,  and  under 
a  weight  of  thought  still  more  oppressive.  As 
it  came  nearer  a  wave  of  sadness  seemed  to  come 
with  it,  dimming  the  sunshine  and  the  green 
splendor  of  the  woods. 

As  she  passed  momentarily  out  of  sight  behind 
some  trees  that  sheltered  the  gate  of  the  court- 
yard, Mrs.  Burgoyne  crossed  the  loggia^  and 
called  to  her  maid. 

"  Marie — be  so  good  as  to  tell  Miss  Foster  when 
she  comes  in  that  I  have  gone  out ;  that  she  is 
not  to  trouble  about  me,  as  I  shall  soon  return  ; 
and  tell  her  also  that  I  felt  unusually  well  and 
strong." 

Then  she  turned  and  beckoned  to  Father 
Benecke. 

"  This  way,  Father,  please  !" 

And  she  led  him  down  the  little  stair  that  had 

taken  Lucy  to  the  garden  the  night  before.     At 

the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  paused.     The  wall  of 

the  garden  divided  them  from   the  court-yard, 

539 


and  on  the  other  side  of  it  they  could  hear  Lucy 
speaking  to  the  massaja. 

**  Now  !'*  said  Eleanor,  '*  quick !— before  she  dis- 
covers us!" 

And  opening  the  garden  door  with  the  priest's 
help  she  passed  into  the  field,  and  took  a  wide 
circuit  to  the  right  so  as  to  be  out  of  view  of  the 
loggia. 

"  Dear  madame,  where  are  you  going  ?"  said 
the  priest  in  some  alarm.  *'This  is  too  fatiguing 
for  you." 

Eleanor  took  no  notice.  She,  who  for  days  had 
scarcely  dragged  one  languid  foot  after  another, 
sped  through  the  heat  and  over  the  broken  ground 
like  one  of  the  goldfinches  in  the  convent  garden. 
The  old  priest  followed  her  with  difficulty.  Nor 
did  she  pause  till  they  were  in  the  middle  of  the 
Sassetto. 

**  Explain  what  we  are  doing  !"  he  implored 
her,  as  she  allowed  him  to  press  his  old  limbs  for 
a  moment  on  his  stick,  and  take  breath. 

She,  too,  leaned  against  a  tree  panting. 

"  You  said,  Father,  that  Mr.  Manisty  was  to 
leave  you  at  mid-day." 

"And  you  wish  to  see  him  ?"  he  cried. 

"  I  am  determined  to  see  him,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  biting  her  lip. 

And  again  she  was  off,  a  gleam  of  whiteness 
gliding  down,  down,  through  the  cool  green  heart 
of  the  Sassetto,  towards  the  Paglia. 

They  emerged   upon  the  fringe  of  the  wood, 


540 


where  amid  scrub  and  sapling  trees  stood  the 
little  sun-baked  house. 

From  the  distance  came  a  sound  of  wheels — a 
carriage  from  Selvapendente  crossing  the  bridge 
over  the  Paglia. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  looked  at  the  house  for  a  mo- 
ment in  silence.  Then,  sheltered  under  her  large 
white  parasol  she  passed  round  to  the  side  that 
fronted  the  river. 

There,  in  the  shade,  sat  Manisty,  his  arms  upon 
his  knees,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

He  did  not  at  first  hear  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  step, 
and  she  paused  a  little  way  off.  She  was  alone. 
The  priest  had  not  followed  her. 

At  last,  as  she  moved,  either  the  sound  of  her 
dress  or  the  noise  of  the  approaching  wheels 
roused  him.  He  looked  up — started — sprang  to 
his  feet. 

''  Eleanor  ! " 


They  met.  Their  eyes  crossed.  She  shivered, 
for  there  were  tears  in  his.  But  through  that  dim- 
ness there  shone  the  fierce  unspoken  question  that 
had  leaped  to  them  at  the  sight  of  his  cousin — 

"Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine  enemy?" 


CHAPTER     XXIII 

ELEANOR  was  the  first  to  break  the  si- 
lence. 
'*You  have  had  a  long  pilgrimage  to 
find  us,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Yet  perhaps  Torre 
Amiata  might  have  occurred  to  you.  It  was  you 
that  praised  it — that  proposed  to  find  quarters  at 
the  convent " 

He  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Eleanor — in  God's  name  !'*  he  broke  out  vio- 
lently, "tell  me  what  this  all  means!  What  has 
been  the  meaning  of  this  mad — this  extraordi- 
nary behavior  ?" 

She  tottered  a  little  and  leaned  against  the 
wall  of  the  house. 

**Find  me  a  chair,  please,  before  we  begin  to 
talk.  And — is  that  your  fly  ?  Send  it  away — to 
wait  under  the  trees.  It  can  take  me  up  the  hill, 
when  we  have  finished." 

He  controlled  himself  with  difficulty  and  went 
round  the  house. 

She  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  memory  of  his  face. 

**  She  has  refused  him !"  she  said   to  herself ; 
542 


'*  and —  what  is  more — she  has  made  him  believe 

itr 

Very  soon  his  step  was  heard  returning.  The 
woman  he  had  left  in  the  shade  listened  for  it,  as 
though  in  all  this  landscape  of  rushing  river  and 
murmuring  wood  it  were  tiie  one  audible,  signifi- 
cant sound.  But  when  he  came  back  to  her 
again,  he  saw  nothing  but  a  composed,  expect- 
ant Eleanor  ;  dressed,  in  these  wilds,  with  a  dain- 
ty care  which  would  have  done  honor  to  London 
or  Paris,  with  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks,  and 
thequiver  of  a  smileon  her  lips.  111!  Rethought 
he  had  seldom  seen  her  look  so  well.  Had  she 
not  always  been  of  a  thistle-down  lightness? 
"  Exaggeration  ! — absurdity  !"  he  said  to  himself 
fiercely,  carrying  his  mind  back  to  certain  say- 
ings in  a  girl's  voice  that  were  still  ringing  in  his 
ears. 

He,  however,  was  in  no  mood  to  smile.  Elea- 
nor had  thrown  herself  sideways  on  the  chair  he 
had  brought  her  ;  her  arms  resting  on  the  back 
of  it,  her  delicate  hands  hanging  down.  It  was 
a  graceful  and  characteristic  attitude,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  affectation  —  a  piece  of  her  fine- 
ladyism. 

She  instantly  perceived  that  he  was  in  a  state 
of  such  profound  and  passionate  excitement  that 
it  was  difficult  for  him  to  speak. 

So  she  began,  with  a  calmness  which  exasper- 
ated him  : 

"  You  asked  me,  Edward,  to  explain  our  esca- 
pade ?" 

543 


He  raised  his  burning  eyes. 

"What  can  you  explain?  —  how  can  you  ex- 
plain?" he  said  roughly.  "Are  you  going  to  tell 
me  why  my  cousin  and  comrade  hates  me  and 
plots  against  me?  —  why  she  has  inflicted  this 
slight  and  outrage  upon  me? — why,  finally,  she 
has  poisoned  against  me  the  heart  of  the  woman 
I  love  r 

He  saw  her  shrink.  Did  a  cruel  and  secret  in- 
stinct in  him  rejoice  ?  He  was  mad  with  rage  and 
misery,  and  he  was  incapable  of  concealing  it. 

She  knew  it.  As  he  dropped  his  head  again  in 
an  angry  stare  at  the  grass  between  them,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  sudden  childish  instinct  to 
put  out  her  hand  and  stroke  the  black  curls  and 
the  great  broad  shoulders.  He  was  not  for  her  ; 
but,  in  the  old  days,  who  had  known  so  well  as 
she  how  to  soothe,  manage,  control  him  ? 

"  I  can't  tell  you  those  things — certainly,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause.  "  I  can't  describe  what  doesn't 
exist." 

And  to  herself  she  cried  :  "  Oh !  I  shall  lie — lie 
— lie — like  a  fiend,  if  I  must !" 

"  What  doesn't  exist  ?"  he  repeated  scornfully. 
"Will  you  listen  to  my  version  of  what  has  hap- 
pened— the  barest,  unadorned  tale  ?  I  was  your 
host  and  Miss  Foster's.  I  had  begun  to  show  the 
attraction  that  Miss  Foster  had  for  me,  to  offer 
her  the  most  trifling,  the  most  ordinary  attention. 
From  the  moment  I  was  first  conscious  of  my 
own  feeling,  I  knew  that  you  were  against  me 
— that  you  were  influencing — Lucy  "—the  name 
544 


dropped  from  his  lips  in  a  mingled  anguish  and 
adoration — ''  against  me.  And  just  as  I  was  be- 
ginning to  understand  my  own  heart  —  to  look 
forward  to  two  or  three  last  precious  weeks  in 
which  to  make,  if  I  could,  a  better  impression 
upon  her,  after  my  abominable  rudeness  at  the 
beginning— fou  interfered — you,  my  best  friend  ! 
Without  a  word  our  party  is  broken  up ;  my 
chance  is  snatched  from  me  ;  Miss  Foster  is  spir- 
ited away.  You  and  she  disappear,  and  you  leave 
me  to  bear  my  affront — the  outrage  done  me — 
as  best  I  may.  You  alarm,  you  distress  all  your 
friends.  Your  father  takes  things  calmly,  I  ad- 
mit. But  even  he  has  been  anxious.  Aunt  Pattie 
has  been  miserable.     As  for  me " 

He  rose,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  before 
her  ;  struggling  with  his  own  wrath. 

"And  at  last" — he  resumed,  pausing  in  front 
of  her — "after  wandering  up  and  down  Italy,  I 
find  you  —  in  this  remote  place  —  by  the  merest 
chance.  Father  Benecke  said  not  a  word.  But 
what  part  he  has  played  in  it  I  don't  yet  un- 
derstand. In  another  half-hour  I  should  have 
been  off  ;  and  again  you  would  have  made  the 
veriest  fool  of  me  that  ever  walked  this  earth. 
Why,  Eleanor?  —  why?  What  have  I  done  to 
you  ?" 

He  stood  before  her — a  superb,  commanding 
presence.  In  his  emotion  all  unshapeliness  of 
limb  or  movement  seemed  to  have  disappeared. 
Transfigured  by  the  unconsciousness  of  passion, 
he  was  all  energy  and  all  grace. 
545 


*'  Eleanor  !— explain  !  Has  our  old  friendship 
deserved  this?  Why  have  you  done  this  thing  to 
me? — And,  my  God  I" — he  began  to  pace- up  and 
down  again,  his  hands  in  his  pockets — '*  how  well 
— how  effectually  you  have  gone  to  work  !  You 
have  had — Lucy — in  your  hands  for  six  weeks. 
It  is  plain  enough  what  has  been  going  on.  This 
morning — on  that  hill — suddenly," — he  raised  his 
hand  to  his  brow,  as  though  the  surprise,  the 
ecstasy  of  the  moment  returned  upon  him  — 
"  there  among  the  trees — was  her  face  !  What  I 
said  I  shall  never  remember.  But  when  a  man 
feels  as  I  do  he  has  no  need  to  take  thought 
what  he  shall  say.  And  she  ?  Impatience,  cold- 
ness, aversion  !  —  not  a  word  permitted  of  my 
long  pilgrimage  —  not  a  syllable  of  explanation 
for  this  slight,  this  unbearable  slight  that  had 
been  put  upon  me  as  her  host,  her  guardian,  for 
the  time  being  !  You  and  she  fly  me  as  though 
I  were  no  longer  fit  to  be  your  companion.  Even 
the  servants  talked.  Aunt  Pattie  and  I  had  to 
set  ourselves  at  once  to  devise  the  most  elabo- 
rate falsehoods,  or  Heaven  knows  where  the  talk 
would  have  spread.  How  had  I  deserved  such 
an  humiliation  ? — Yet,  when  I  meet  Miss  Foster 
again,  she  behaves  as  though  she  owed  me  not  a 
word  of  excuse.  All  her  talk  of  you  and  your 
health!  I  must  go  away  at  once  — because  it 
would  startle  and  disturb  you  to  see  me.  She 
had  already  found  out  by  chance  that  I  was  here 
— she  had  begged  Father  Benecke  to  use  his  in- 
fluence with  me  not  to  insist  on  seeing  you — not 
S46 


to  come  to  the  convent.  It  was  the  most  amaz- 
ing, the  most  inexplicable  thing !  What  in  the 
name  of  fortune  does  it  mean  ?  Are  we  all  mad  ? 
Is  the  world  and  every  one  on  it  rushing  together 
to  Bedlam  ?" 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  Was  it  that  this  mere 
voice,  the  familiar  torrent  of  words,  was  delight- 
ful to  her? — that  she  cared  very  little  what  he 
said,  so  long  as  he  was  there,  living,  breathing, 
pleading  before  her  ? — that,  like  Sidney,  she  could 
have  cried  to  him  :  "  Say  on,  and  all  well  said,  still 
say  the  same  "  ? 

But  he  meant  to  be  answered.  He  came  close 
to  her. 

"We  have  been  comrades,  Eleanor  —  fellow- 
workers — friends.  You  have  come  to  know  me 
as  perhaps  no  other  woman  has  known  me.  I 
have  shown  you  a  thousand  faults.  You  know 
all  my  weaknesses.  You  have  a  right  to  despise 
me  as  an  unstable,  egotistical,  selfish  fool ;  who 
must  needs  waste  other  people's  good  time  and 
good  brains  for  his  own  futile  purposes.  You 
have  a  right  to  think  me  ungrateful  for  the  kind- 
est help  that  ever  man  got.  You  have  a  right  as 
Miss  Foster's  friend  —  and  perhaps,  guessing  as 
you  do  at  some  of  my  past  history, — to  expect  of 
mc  probation  and  guarantees.  You  have  a  right 
to  warn  her  how  she  gives  away  anything  so  pre- 
cious as  herself.  But  you  have  not  a  right  to  in- 
flict on  me  such  suffering — such  agony  of  mind 
— as  you  have  imposed  on  me  the  last  six  weeks ! 
I  deny  it,  Eleanor — I  deny  it  altogether  !  The 
547 


punishment,  the  test  goes  beyond — far  beyond — 
your  right  and  my  offences !" 

He  calmed— he  curbed  himself. 

"  The  reckoning  has  come,  Eleanor.  I  ask  you 
to  pay  it." 

She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"But  I  can't  go  at  that  pace.  You  must  give 
me  time." 

He  turned  away  in  a  miserable  impatience. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  thought  a  little.  "  Now  " 
— she  said  to  herself — "  now  is  the  time  for  lying. 
It  must  be  done.     Quick  !  no  scruples  !" 

And  aloud  : 

"  You  understand,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  Miss 
Foster  and  I  had  become  much  attached  to  each 
other?" 

"  I  understand." 

"That  she  had  felt  great  sympathy  for  me  in 
the  failure  of  the  book,  and  was  inclined — well, 
you  have  proof  of  it ! — to  pity  me,  of  course  a 
great  deal  too  much,  for  being  a  weakling.  She  is 
the  most  tender — the  most  loving  creature  that 
exists." 

"  How  does  that  explain  why  you  should  have 
fled  from  me  like  the  plague  ?"  he  said  doggedly. 

"  No — no — but Anyway,  you  see  Lucy  was 

likely  to  do  anything  she  could  to  please  me. 
That's  plain,  isn't  it  ?— so  far?" 

Her  head  dropped  a  little  to  one  side,  interrog- 
atively. 

He  made  no  reply.  He  still  stood  in  front  of 
her,  his  eyes  bent  upon  her,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

«;48 


"  Meanwhile" — the  color  rushed  over  her  face — 
"  I  had  been,  most  innocently,  an  eavesdropper." 

"Ah  !"  he  said,  with  a  movement,  "  that  night? 
I  imagined  it." 

"  You  were  not  as  cautious  as  you  might  have 
been — considering  all  the  people  about — and  I 
heard." 

He  waited,  all  ear.  But  she  ceased  to  speak. 
She  bent  a  little  farther  over  the  back  of  the 
chair,  as  though  she  were  making  a  mental  enu- 
meration of  the  leaves  of  a  tiny  myrtle  bush  that 
grew  near  his  heel. 

"  I  thought  that  bit  of  truth  would  have  stif- 
fened the  lies,"  she  thought  to  herself  ;  "  but  some- 
how— they  don't  work." 

"Well:  then,  you  see" — she  threw  back  her 
head  again  and  looked  at  him — "  I  had  to  con- 
sider. As  you  say,  I  knew  you  better  than  most 
people.  It  was  all  remarkably  rapid — you  will 
hardly  deny  that  ?  For  a  fortnight  you  took 
no  notice  of  Lucy  Foster.     Then  the  attraction 

began  —  and  suddenly Well,  we  needn't  go 

into  that  any  more ;  but  with  your  character  it 
was  plain  that  you  would  push  matters  on — 
that  you  would  give  her  no  time  —  that  you 
would  speak,  cotlte  que  coiUe  —  that  you  would 
fling  caution  and  delay  to  the  winds— and  that 
all  in  a  moment  Lucy  Foster  would  find  her- 
self confronted  by  a  great  decision  that  she  was 
not  at  all  prepared  to  make.  It  was  not  fair 
that  she  should  even  be  asked  to  make  it.  I 
had  become  her  friend,  specially.  You  will  see 
549 


there  was  a  responsibility;  Delay  for  both  of 
you  —  wasn't  that  to  be  desired  ?  And  no  use 
whatever  to  go  and  leave  you  the  address  ! — 
you'll  admit  that  ?"  she  said  hurriedly,  with  the 
accent  of  a  child  trying  to  entrap  the  judgment 
of  an  angry  elder  who  was  bringing  it  to  book. 

He  stood  there  lost  in  wrath,  bewilderment, 
mystification.  Was  there  ever  a  more  lame,  more 
ridiculous  tale  ? 

Then  he  turned  quickly  Upon  her,  searching 
her  face  for  some  clew.  A  sudden  perception — 
a  perception  of  horror — swept  upon  him.  Elea- 
nor's first  flush  was  gone  ;  in  its  place  was  the 
pallor  of  effort  and  excitement.  What  a  ghost, 
what  a  spectre  she  had  become  !  Manisty  looked 
at  her  aghast, — at  her  unsteady  yet  defiant  eyes, 
at  the  uncontrollable  trembling  of  the  mouth 
she  did  her  best  to  keep  at  its  hard  task  of  smil- 
ing. 

In  a  flash,  he  understood.  A  wave  of  red  in- 
vaded the  man's  face  and  neck.  He  saw  himself 
back  in  the  winter  days,  working,  talking,  think- 
ing ;  always  with  Eleanor  ;  Eleanor  his  tool,  his 
stimulus;  her  delicate  mind  and  heart  the  block 
on  which  he  sharpened  his  own  powers  and  per- 
ceptions. He  recalled  his  constant  impatience 
of  the  barriers  that  hamper  cold  and  cautious 
people.  He  must  have  intimacy,  feeling,  and 
the  moods  that  border  on  and  play  with  passion. 
Only  so  could  his  own  gift  of  phrase,  his  own 
artistic  divinations  develop  to  a  fine  subtlety  and 
clearness,  like  flowers  in  a  kind  air. 
550 


An  experience,— for  him.  And  for  her?  H6 
remembered  how,  in  a  leisurely  and  lordly  way, 
he  had  once  thought  it  possible  he  might  some 
day  reward  his  cousin  ;  at  the  end  of  things,  when 
all  other  adventures  were  done. 

Then  came  that  tragi -comedy  of  the  book; 
his  disillusion  with  it;  his  impatient  sense  that 
the  winter's  work  upon  it  was  somehow  bound 
up  in  Eleanor's  mind  with  a  claim  on  him  that 
had  begun  to  fret  and  tease  ;  and  those  rebuffs, 
tacit  or  spoken,  which  his  egotism  had  not  shrunk 
from  inflicting  on  her  sweetness. 

How  could  he  have  helped  inflicting  them? 
Lucy  had  come  !  —  to  stir  in  him  the  deepest 
waters  of  the  soul.  Besides,  he  had  never  taken 
Eleanor  seriously.  On  the  one  hand  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  intellect,  and  therefore  hardly 
woman  ;  on  the  other  he  had  conceived  her  as 
too  gentle,  too  sweet,  too  sensitive  to  push  any- 
thing to  extremes.  No  doubt  the  flight  of  the 
two  friends  and  Eleanor's  letter  had  been  a  rude 
awakening.  He  had  then  understood  that  he  had 
offended  Eleanor,  offended  her  both  as  a  friend, 
and  as  a  clever  woman.  She  had  noticed  the 
dawn  of  his  love  for  Lucy  Foster,  and  had  deter- 
mined that  he  should  still  recognize  her  power 
and  influence  upon  his  life. 

This  was  part  of  his  explanation.  As  to  the 
rest,  it  was  inevitable  that  both  his  vanity  and 
passion  should  speak  soft  things.  A  girl  does  not 
take  such  a  wild  step,  or  acquiesce  in  it — till  she 
has  felt  a  man's  power.  Self-assertion  on  Elea- 
551 


nor's  part — a  sweet  alarm  on  Lucy's — these  had 
been  his  keys  to  the  matter,  so  far.  They  had 
brought  him  anger,  but  also  hope  ;  the  most  de- 
licious, the  most  confident  hope. 

Now  remorse  shot  through  him,  fierce  and 
stinging  —  remorse  and  terror!  Then  on  their 
heels  followed  an  angry  denial  of  responsibility, 
mingled  with  alarm  and  revolt.  Was  he  to  be 
robbed  of  Lucy  because  Eleanor  had  misread 
him  ?  No  doubt  she  had  imprinted  what  she 
pleased  on  Lucy's  mind.  Was  he  indeed  undone? 
— for  good  and  all  ? 

Then  shame,  pity,  rushed  upon  him  headlong. 
He  dared  not  look  at  the  face  beside  him  with  its 
record  of  pain.  He  tried  to  put  out  of  his  mind 
what  it  meant.  Of  course  he  must  accept  her 
lead.  He  was  only  too  eager  to  accept  it ;  to  play 
the  game  as  she  pleased.  She  was  mistress  ? 
That  he  realized. 

He  took  up  the  camp-stool  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting  when  she  arrived  and  placed  himself 
beside  her. 

"  Well  —  that  explains  something  "  —  he  said 
more  gently.  "  I  can't  complain  that  I  don't 
seem  to  you  or  any  one  a  miracle  of  discretion  ;  I 
can't  wonder — perhaps— that  you  should  wish  to 
protect  Miss  Foster,  if— if  you  thought  she  need- 
ed protecting.  But  I  must  think — I  can't  help 
thinking,  that  you  set  about  it  with  very  unneces- 
sary violence.  And  for  yourself  too — what  mad- 
ness !  Eleanor !  what  have  you  been  doing  to 
yourself  ?" 

552 


He  looked  at  her  reproachfully  with  that  sud- 
den and  intimate  penetration  which  was  one  of 
his  chief  spells  with  women.     Eleanor  shrank. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  ill,"  she  said  hastily  ;  "  too  ill  in  fact 
to  make  a  fuss  about.  It  would  only  be  a  waste 
of  time." 

"  Of  course  you  have  found  this  place  too  rough 
for  you.  Have  you  any  comforts  at  all  in  that 
ruin  ?  Eleanor,  what  a  rash, — what  a  wild  thing 
to  do  !" 

He  came  closer  to  her,  and  Eleanor  trembled 
under  the  strong  expostulating  tenderness  of  his 
face  and  voice.  It  was  so  like  him — to  be  always 
somehow  in  the  right  !  Would  he  succeed,  now 
as  always,  in  doing  with  her  exactly  as  he  would  ? 
And  was  it  not  this,  this  first  and  foremost  that 
she  had  fled  from  ? 

"  No  " — she  said, — "  no.  I  have  been  as  well 
here  as  I  should  have  been  anywhere  else.  Don't 
let  us  talk  of  it." 

"  But  I  must  talk  of  it.  You  have  hurt  your- 
self—  and  Heaven  knows  you  have  hurt  me  — 
desperately.  Eleanor — when  I  came  back  from 
that  function  the  day  you  left  the  villa,  I  came 
back  with  the  intention  of  telling  3^ou  everything. 
I  knew  you  were  Miss  Foster's  friend.  I  thought 
you  were  mine  too.  In  spite  of  all  my  stupidity 
about  the  book,  Eleanor,  you  would  have  listened 
to  me? — you  would  have  advised  me?" 

"When  did  you  begin  to  think  of  Lucy?" 

Her  thin  fingers,  crossed  over  her  brow,  as  she 
rested  her  arm  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  hid 
T  553 


from  him  the  eagerness,  the  passion,  of  her 
curiosity. 

But  he  scented  danger.  He  prepared  himself 
to  walk  warily. 

**It  was  after  Nemi — quite  suddenly.  I  can't 
explain  it.  How  can  one  ever  explain  those 
things?" 

"What  makes  you  want  to  marry  her?  What 
possible  congruity  is  there  between  her  and  you  ?" 

He  laughed  uneasily. 

"What's  the  good  of  asking  those  things? 
One's  feeling  itself  is  the  answer." 

"But  I'm  the  spectator  — the  friend."  — The 
word  came  out  slowly,  with  a  strange  emphasis. 
"I  want  to  know  what  Lucy's  chances  are." 

"Chances  of  what?" 

"  Chances  of  happiness." 

"Good  God!" — he  said,  with  an  impatient 
groan. — "  You  talk  as  though  she  were  going  to 
give  herself  any  opportunity  to  find  out." 

"Well,  let  us  talk  so,  for  argument.  You're 
not  exactly  a  novice,  you  know,  in  these  things. 
How  is  one  to  be  sure  that  you're  not  playing 
with  Lucy— as  you  played  with  the  book — till 
you  can  go  back  to  the  play  you  really  like 
best?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried,  starting  with 
indignation — "the  play  of  politics?" 

"  Politics — ambition — what  you  will.  Suppose 
Lucy  finds  herself  taken  up  and  thrown  down — 
like  the  book? — when  the  interest's  done?" 

She  uncovered  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him 
554 


steadily,  coldly.  It  was  an  Eleanor  he  did  not 
know. 

He  sprang  up  in  his  anger  and  discomfort,  and 
began  to  pace  again  in  front  of  her. 

"Oh  well — if  you  think  as  badly  of  me  as  that " 
— he  said  fiercely, — "  I  don't  see  what  good  can 
come  of  this  conversation." 

There  was  a  pause.  At  the  end  of  it,  Eleanor 
said  in  another  voice : 

"  Did  you  ever  give  her  any  indication  of  what 
you  felt — before  to-day?" 

"  I  came  near — in  the  Borghese  gardens,"  he 
said  reluctantly.     "  If  she  had  held  out  the  tip  of 

her  little  finger But  she  didn't.  And  I  should 

have  been  a  fool.  It  was  too  soon — too  hasty. 
Anyway,  she  would  not  give   me   the  smallest 

opening.    And  afterwards "    He  paused.    His 

mind  passed  to  his  night-wandering  in  the  gar- 
den, to  the  strange  breaking  of  the  terracotta. 
Furtively  his  gaze  examined  Eleanor's  face.  But 
what  he  saw  of  it  told  him  nothing,  and  again 
his  instinct  warned  him  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie. 
"Afterwards  I  thought  things  over,  naturally. 
And  I  determined,  that  night,  as  I  have  already 
said,  to  come  to  you  and  take  counsel  with  you. 
I  saw  you  were  out  of  charity  with  me.  And, 
goodness  knows,  there  was  not  much  to  be  said 
for  me !  But  at  any  rate  I  thought  that  we,  who 
had  been  such  old  friends,  had  better  understand 
each  other;  that  you'd  help  me  if  I  asked  you. 
You'd  never  yet  refused,  anyway." 

His  voice  changed.  She  said  nothing  for  a 
555 


little,  and  her  hands  still  made  a  penthouse  for 
her  face. 

At  last  she  threw  him  a  question. 

"Just  now — what  happened?" 

"  Good  Heavens,  as  if  I  knew  !*'  he  said,  with  a 
cry  of  distress.  "  I  tried  to  tell  her  how  I  had 
gone  up  and  down  Italy,  seeking  for  her,  hunger- 
ing for  any  shred  of  news  of  you.  And  she? — 
she  treated  me  like  a  troublesome  intruder,  like 
a  dog  that  follows  you  unasked  and  has  to  be 
beaten  back  with  your  stick !" 

Eleanor  smiled  a  little.  His  heart  and  his 
vanity  had  been  stabbed  alike.  Certainly  he  had 
something  to  complain  of. 

She  dropped  her  hands,  and  drew  herself  erect. 

"  Well,  yes,"  she  said  in  a  meditative  voice,  **  we 
must  think — we  must  see." 

As  she  sat  there,  rapt  in  a  sudden  intensity  of 
reflection,  the  fatal  transformation  in  her  was 
still  more  plainly  visible;  Manisty  could  hardly 
keep  his  eyes  from  her.  Was  it  his  fault?  His 
poor,  kind  Eleanor  !  He  felt  the  ghastly  tribute 
of  it,  felt  it  with  impatience,  and  repulsion.  Must 
a  man  always  measure  his  words  and  actions  by 
a  foot-rule — lest  a  woman  take  him  too  seriously? 
He  repented ;  and  in  the  same  breath  told  him- 
self that  his  penalty  was  more  than  his  due. 

At  last  Eleanor  spoke. 

'*  I  must  return  a  moment  to  what  we  said  be- 
fore. Lucy  Foster's  ways,  habits,  antecedents 
are  wholly  different  from  yours.  Suppose  there 
were  a  chance  for  you.  You  would  take  her  to 
556 


London — expect  her  to  play  her  part  there — in 
your  world.  Suppose  she  failed.  How  would 
you  get  on?" 

"  Eleanor — really  ! — am  I  a  '  three-tailed  ba- 
shaw '  ?" 

'*No.  But  you  are  absorbing — despotic — fas- 
tidious. You  might  break  that  girl's  heart  in  a 
thousand  ways — before  you  knew  you'd  done  it. 
You  don't  give;  you  take." 

''And  you — hit  hard !"  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
resuming  his  walk. 

She  sat  white  and  motionless,  her  eyes  spar- 
kling. Presently  he  stood  still  before  her,  his 
features  working  with  emotion. 

*'  It  I  am  incapablo  of  love — and  unworthy  of 
hers,"  he  said  in  a  stifled  voice, — "if  that's  your 
verdict— if  that's  what  you  tell  her — I'd  better 
go.  I  know  your  power — I  don't  dispute  your 
right  to  form  a  judgment — I'll  go.  The  carriage 
is  there.     Good-bye." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his  with  a  quick  gesture. 

"  She  loves  you !  " — she  said,  simply. 

Manisty  fell  back,  with  a  cry. 

There  was  a  silence.  Eleanor's  being  was 
flooded  with  the  strangest,  most  ecstatic  sense  of 
deliverance.  She  had  been  her  own  executioner ; 
and  this  was  not  death — but  life ! 

She  rose.  And  speaking  in  her  natural  voice, 
with  her  old  smile,  she  said — "  I  must  go  back  to 
her — she  will  have  missed  me.  Now  then — what 
shall  we  do  next?" 

He  walked  beside  her  bewildered. 
557 


"  You  have  taken  my  breath  away — lifted  me 
from  hell  to  purgatory  anyway,"  he  said,  at  last, 
trying  for  composure.  "  I  have  no  plans  for  my- 
self— no  particular  hope — you  didn't  see  and  hear 
her  just  now !  But  I  leave  it  all  in  your  hands. 
What  else  can  I  do?" 

"  No,"  she  said  calmly.  "There  is  nothing  else 
for  you  to  do." 

He  felt  a  tremor  of  revolt,  so  quick  and  strange 
was  her  assumption  of  power  over  both  his  des- 
tiny and  Lucy's.  But  he  suppressed  it;  made 
no  reply. 

They  turned  the  corner  of  the  house.  "  Your 
carriage  can  take  me  up  the  hill,"  said  Eleanor. 
"You  must  ask  Father  Benecke's  hospitality  a 
little  longer;  and  you  shall  hear  from  me  to- 
night." 

They  walked  towards  the  carriage,  which  was 
waiting  a  hundred  yards  away.  On  the  way 
Manisty  suddenly  said,  plunging  back  into  some 
of  the  perplexities  which  had  assailed  him  before 
Eleanor's  appearance  : 

"  What  on  earth  does  Father  Benecke  know 
about  it  all  ?  Why  did  he  never  mention  that 
you  were  here  ;  and  then  ask  me  to  pay  him  a 
visit  ?  Why  did  he  send  me  up  the  hill  this  morn- 
ing ?  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  convent.  He 
made  me  go." 

Eleanor  started ;  colored ;  and  pondered  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  We  pledged  him  to  secrecy  as  to  his  letters. 
But  all  priests  are  Jesuits,  aren't  they  ? — even 
55B 


the  good  ones.  I  suppose  he  thought  we  had 
quarrelled,  and  he  would  force  us  for  our  good 
to  make  it  up.  He  is  very  kind — and — rather 
romantic." 

Manisty  said  no  more.  Here,  too,  he  divined 
mysteries  that  were  best  avoided. 

They  stood  beside  the  carriage.  The  coachman 
was  on  the  ground  remedying  something  wrong 
with  the  harness. 

Suddenly  Manisty  put  out  his  hand  and  seized 
his  companion's. 

"  Eleanor  !"  he  said  imploringly — "  Eleanor  !'* 

His  lips  could  not  form  a  word  more.  But  his 
eyes  spoke  for  him.  They  breathed  compunction, 
entreaty  ;  they  hinted  what  neither  could  ever 
say  ;  they  asked  pardon  for  offences  that  could 
never  be  put  into  words. 

Eleanor  did  not  shrink.  Her  look  met  his  in 
the  first  truly  intimate  gaze  that  they  had  ever 
exchanged  ;  hers  infinitely  sad,  full  of  a  dignity 
recovered,  and  never  to  be  lost  again,  the  gaze, 
indeed,  of  a  soul  that  was  already  withdrawing 
itself  gently,  imperceptibly  from  the  things  of 
earth  and  sense;  his  agitated  and  passionate. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  the  clear  brown 
of  those  beautiful  eyes  just  cloud  with  tears. 
Then  they  dropped,  and  the  moment  was  over, 
the  curtain  fallen,  forever. 

They  sighed,  and  moved  apart.  The  coachman 
climbed  upon  the  box. 

"  To-night  !"— she  said,  smiling — waving  her 
hand— "Till  to-night." 

559 


"  Avanti r  cried  the  coachman,  and  the  horses 
began  to  toil  sleepily  up  the  hill. 

*'  Sapphira  was  nothing  to  me  !"  thought  Elea- 
nor as  she  threw  herself  back  in  the  old  shabby 
landau  with  a  weariness  of  body  that  made  little 
impression  however  on  the  tension  of  her  mind. 

Absently  she  looked  out  at  the  trees  above 
and  around  her  ;  at  the  innumerable  turns  of 
the  road.  So  the  great  meeting  was  over  !  Man- 
isty's  reproaches  had  come  and  gone  !  With  his 
full  knowledge — at  his  humble  demand — she  held 
his  fate  in  her  hands. 

Again  that  extraordinary  sense  of  happiness 
and  lightness  !  She  shrank  from  it  in  a  kind 
of  terror. 

Once,  as  the  horses  turned  corner  after  cor- 
ner, the  sentence  of  a  meditative  Frenchman 
crossed  her  mind ;  words  which  said  that  the 
only  satisfaction  for  man  lies  in  being  dans 
Vordre ;  in  unity,  that  is,  with  the  great  world- 
machine  in  which  he  finds  himself  ;  fighting  with 
it,  not  against  it. 

Her  mind  played  about  this  thought ;  then  re- 
turned to  Manisty  and  Lucy. 

A  new  and  humbled  Manisty  ! — shaken  with  a 
supreme  longing  and  fear  which  seemed  to  have 
driven  out  for  the  moment  all  the  other  ele- 
ments in  his  character — those  baser,  vainer,  weak- 
er elements  that  she  knew  so  well.  The  change 
in  him  was  a  measure  of  the  smallness  of  her 
own  past  influence  upon  him  ;  of  the  infinitude 
560 


of  her  own  self-deception.  Her  sharp  intelligence 
drew  the  inference  at  once,  and  bade  her  pride 
accept  it. 

They  had  reached  the  last  stretch  of  hill  before 
the  convent.  Where  was  Lucy  ?  She  looked  out 
eagerly. 

The  girl  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  wait- 
ing. As  Eleanor  bent  forward  with  a  nervous 
"Dear,  I  am  not  tired — wasn't  it  lovely  to  find 
this  carriage?"  Lucy  made  no  reply.  Her  face 
was  stern  ;  her  eyes  red.  She  helped  Eleanor  to 
alight  without  a  word. 

But  when  they  had  reached  Eleanor's  cool  and 
shaded  room,  and  Eleanor  was  lying  on  her  bed 
physically  at  rest,  Lucy  stood  beside  her  with  a 
quivering  face. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  to  go  at  once  ?  Of  course 
you  have  seen  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  him.  Father  Benecke  gave 
me  notice." 

*'  Father  Benecke  !"  said  the  girl  with  a  tight- 
ening of  the  lip. 

There  was  a  pause  ;  then  Eleanor  said  : 

"  Dear,  get  that  low  chair  and  sit  beside  me." 

"You  oughtn't  to  speak  a  word,"  said  Lucy 
impetuously  ;  "  you  ought  to  rest  there  for  hours. 
Why  we  should  be  disturbed  in  this  unwarranta- 
ble, this  unpardonable  way,  I  can't  imagine." 

She  looked  taller  than  Eleanor  had  ever  seen 
her  ;  and  more  queenly.  Her  whole  frame  seemed 
to  be  stiff  with  indignation  and  will. 

"  Come  !"  said  Eleanor,  holding  out  her  hand. 
561 


Unwillingly  Lucy  obeyed. 

Eleanor  turned  towards  her.  Their  faces  were 
close  together ;  the  ghastly  pallor  of  the  one  be- 
side the  stormy,  troubled  beauty  of  the  other. 

"Darling,  listen  to  me.  For  two  months  I 
have  been  like  a  person  in  a  delirium  —  under 
suggestion,  as  the  hypnotists  say.  I  have  not 
been  myself.  It  has  been  a  possession.  And  this 
morning — before  I  saw  Edward  at  all— I  felt  the 
demon — go  !  And  the  result  is  very  simple.  Put 
your  ear  down  to  me." 

Lucy  bent. 

"  The  one  thing  in  the  world  that  I  desire  now 
— before  I  die  —  (Ah  !  dear,  don't  start !  —  you 
know  !) — the  only,  only  thing — is  that  you  and 
Edward  should  be  happy — and  forgive  me." 

Her  voice  was  lost  in  a  sob.  Lucy  kissed  her 
quickly,  passionately.     Then  she  rose. 

"  I  shall  never  marry  Mr.  Manisty,  Eleanor,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean.  It  is  well  to  make  that 
clear  at  once." 

"And  why?"  Eleanor  caught  her — kept  her 
prisoner. 

"  Why  ? — why  ?"  said  Lucy  impatiently—"  be- 
cause I  have  no  desire  to  marry  him — because— 
I  would  sooner  cut  off  my  right  hand  than  marry 
him." 

Eleanor  held  her  fast,  looked  at  her  with  a 
brilliant  eye — accusing,  significant. 

"  A  fortnight  ago  you  were  on  the  loggia-^ 
alone.  I  saw  you  from  my  room.  Lucy  I— I  saw 
you  kiss  the  terracotta  he  gave  you.  Do  you 
562 


mean  to  tell  me  that  meant  nothing — nothing — 
from  you,  of  all  people  ?  Oh  !  you  dear,  dear 
child  ! — I  knew  it  from  the  beginning — I  knew 
it — but  I  was  mad." 

Lucy  had  grown  very  white,  but  she  stood 
rigid. 

"  I  can't  be  responsible  for  what  you  thought, 
or — for  anything  —  but  what  I  do.  And  I  will 
never  marry  Mr.  Manisty." 

Eleanor  still  held  her. 

**  Dear — you  remember  that  night  when  Alice 
attacked  you  ?  I  came  into  the  library,  unknown 
to  you  both.  You  were  still  in  the  chair — you 
heard  nothing.  He  stooped  over  you.  I  heard 
what  he  said.  I  saw  his  face.  Lucy  !  there  are 
terrible  risks — not  to  you — but  to  him— in  driving 
a  temperament  like  his  to  despair.  You  know  how 
he  lives  by  feeling,  by  imagination^how  much 
of  the  artist,  of  the  poet,  there  is  in  him.  If  he 
is  happy — if  there  is  some  one  to  understand,  and 
strengthen  him,  he  will  do  great  things.  If  not 
he  will  waste  his  life.  And  that  would  be  so  bit- 
ter, bitter  to  see  !" 

Eleanor  leaned  her  face  on  Lucy's  hands,  and 
the  girl  felt  her  tears.  She  shook  from  head  to 
foot,  but  she  did  not  yield. 

'*  I  can't — I  can't " — she  said  in  a  low,  resolute 
voice     **  Don't  ask  me.     I  never  can." 

"  And  you  told  him  so  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  told  him — except  that  he 
mustn't  trouble  you — that  we  wanted  him  to  go 
—to  go  directly." 

563 


"And  he — what  did  he  say  to  you  ?" 

"  That  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,"  cried  Lucy. 
"  I  have  given  him  no  right  to  say  what  he  does. 
Did  I  encourage  him  to  spend  these  weeks  in 
looking  for  us?     Never  !•' 

"  He  didn't  want  encouraging,"  said  Eleanor. 
"  He  is  in  love — perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life.  If  you  are  to  give  him  no  hope — it  will  go 
hard  with  him." 

Lucy's  face  only  darkened. 

"  How  can  you  say  such  things  to  me  ?"  she 
said  passionately.     "  How  can  you  ?" 

Eleanor  sighed.  "  I  have  not  much  right  to 
say  them,  I  know,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  I  have  poisoned  the  sound  of  them  to 
your  ears." 

Lucy  was  silent.  She  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  with  her  hands  behind  her. 

"  I  will  never,  never  forgive  Father  Benecke," 
she  said  presently,  in  a  low,  determined  voice. 

"  What  do  you  think  he  had  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  I  know,"  said  Lucy.  "  He  brought  Mr.  Man- 
isty  here.  He  sent  him  up  the  hill  this  morning 
to  see  me.  It  was  the  most  intolerable  interfer- 
ence and  presumption.  Only  a  priest  could  have 
done  it." 

"  Oh  !  you  bigot ! — you  Puritan  !  Come  here, 
little  wild-cat.     Let  me  say  something." 

Lucy  came  reluctantly,  and  Eleanor  held  her. 

"Doesn't  it  enter  into  your  philosophy  —  tell 
me— that  one  soul  should  be  able  to  do  anything 
for  another  ?" 

564 


"  I  don't  believe  in  the  professional,  anyway," 
said  Lucy  stiffly — "  nor  in  the  professional  claims." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  a  training  like  any  other."    . 

"Did  you  —  did  you  confide  in  him?"  said  the 
girl  after  a  moment,  with  a  visible  effort. 

Eleanor  made  no  reply.  She  lay  with  her  face 
hidden.  When  Lucy  bent  down  to  her  she  said 
with  a  sudden  sob  : 

"  Don't  you  understand  ?  I  have  been  near  two 
griefs  since  I  came  here  — his  and  the  Contessa's. 
And  mine  didn't  stand  the  comparison." 

"  Father  Benecke  had  no  right  to  take  matters 
into  his  own  hands,"  said  Lucy  stubbornly. 

"I  think  he  was  afraid — I  should  die  in  my 
sins,"  said  Eleanor  wildly.  "  He  is  an  apostle — 
he  took  the  license  of  one." 

Lucy  frowned,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Lucy  !  what  makes  you  so  hard — so  strange?" 

"  I  am  not  hard.  But  I  don't  want  to  see  Mr. 
Manisty  again.  I  want  to  take  you  safely  back 
to  England,  and  then  to  go  home — home  to  Uncle 
Ben — to  my  own  people." 

Her  voice  showed  the  profoundest  and  most 
painful  emotion.  Eleanor  felt  a  movement  of 
despair.  What  could  he  have  said  or  done  to 
set  this  tender  nature  so  on  edge?  If  it  had  not 
been  for  that  vision  on  the  loggia^  she  would 
have  thought  that  the  girl's  heart  was  in  truth 
untouched,  and  that  Manisty  would  sue  in  vain. 
But  how  was  it  possible  to  think  it  ? 

She  lost  herself  in  doubts  and  conjectures,  while 
Lucy  still  moved  up  and  down. 
56s 


Presently  Cecco  brought  up  their  meal,  and 
Eleanor  must  needs  eat  and  drink  to  soothe 
Lucy's  anxiety.  The  girl  watched  her  every 
movement,  and  Eleanor  dared  neither  be  tired 
nor  dainty,  lest  for  every  mouthful  she  refused 
Manisty's  chance  should  be  the  less. 

After  dinner  she  once  more  laid  a  detaining 
hand  on  her  companion, 

"Dear,  I  can't  send  him  away,  you  know— at 
once — to  please  you." 

"  Do  you  want  him  to  stay  ?"  said  Lucy,  holding 
herself  aloof. 

"  After  all,  he  is  my  kinsman.  There  are  many 
things  to  discuss — much  to  hear." 

"Very  well.  It  won't  be  necessary  for  me  to 
take  part." 

"  Not  unless  you  like.  But,  Lucy,  it  would 
make  me  very  unhappy — if  you  were  unkind  to 
him.  You  have  made  him  suffer,  my  dear  ;  he  is 
not  the  meekest  of  men.     Be  content." 

"  I  will  be  quite  polite,"  said  the  girl,  turning 
away  her  head.  "You  will  be  able  to  travel — 
won't  you — very  soon  ?" 

Eleanor  assented  vaguely,  and  the  conversation 
dropped. 

In  the  afternoon  Marie  took  a  note  to  the  cot- 
tage by  the  river. 

"  Ask  Father  Benecke  to  let  you  stay  a  few  days. 
Things  look  bad.  What  did  you  say  ?  If  you  at- 
tacked me,  it  has  done  you  harm." 

Meanwhile  Lucy,  who  felt  herself  exiled  from 
566 


the  woods,  the  roads,  the  village,  by  one  threat- 
ening presence,  shut  herself  up  for  a  while  in  her 
own  room,  in  youth's  most  tragic  mood,  calling 
on  the  pangs  of  thought  to  still  more  strengthen 
her  resolve  and  clear  her  mind. 

She  forced  her  fingers  to  an  intermittent  task 
of  needle-work,  but  there  were  long  pauses  when 
her  hands  lay  idle  on  her  lap,  when  her  head 
drooped  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  all 
her  life  centred  in  her  fast  beating  heart,  driven 
and  strained  by  the  torment  of  recollection. 

That  moment  when  she  had  stepped  out  upon 
the  road  from  the  shelter  of  the  wood — the  thrill 
of  it  even  in  memory  made  her  pale  and  cold. 
His  look — his  cry — the  sudden  radiance  of  the 
face,  which,  as  she  had  first  caught  sight  of  it, 
bent  in  a  brooding  frown  over  the  dusty  road, 
had  seemed  to  her  the  very  image  of  discon- 
tent. 

"  Miss  Foster  \—Lucy  r 

The  word  had  escaped  him,  in  his  first  rush  of 
joy,  his  spring  towards  her.  And  she  had  felt 
herself  tottering,  in  a  sudden  blindness. 

What  could  she  remember?  The  breathless 
contradiction  of  his  questions  —  the  eager  grasp 
of  her  hand — then  her  first  mention  of  Eleanor 
— the  short  stammering  sentences,  which  as  she 
spoke  them  sounded  to  her  own  ear  so  inconclu- 
sive, unintelligible,  insulting  —  and  his  growing 
astonishment,  the  darkening  features,  the  tight- 
ening lips,  and  finally  his  step  backward,  the 
haughty  bracing  of  the  whole  man. 
567 


**  Why  does  my  cousin  refuse  to  see  me  ?  What 
possible  reason  can  you  or  she  assign  ?" 

And  then  her  despairing  search  for  the  right 
word,  that  would  not  come  !  He  must  please, 
please,  go  away — because  Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  ill 
— because  the  doctors  were  anxious  —  because 
there  must  be  no  excitement.  She  was  acting 
as  nurse,  but  it  was  only  to  be  for  a  short  time 
longer.  In  a  week  or  two,  no  doubt  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne would  go  to  England,  and  she  would  re- 
turn to  America  with  the  Porters.  But  for  the 
present,  quiet  was  still  absolutely  necessary. 

Then — silence  !— and  afterwards  a  few  sarcas- 
tic interrogations,  quick,  practical,  hard  to  an- 
swer —  the  mounting  menace  of  that  thunder- 
brow,  extravagant,  and  magnificent, — the  trem- 
bling of  her  own  limbs.  And  at  last  that  sharp 
sentence,  like  lightning  from  the  cloud,  as  to 
"  whims  and  follies "  that  no  sane  man  could 
hope  to  unravel,  which  had  suddenly  nerved  her 
to  be  angry. 

"  Oh !  I  was  odious — odious  !" — she  thought  to 
herself,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

His  answering  indignation  seemed  to  clatter 
through  her  room. 

"  And  you  really  expect  me  to  do  your  bid- 
ding calmly, — to  play  this  ridiculous  part  ? — to 
leave  my  cousin  and  you  in  these  wilds — at 
this  time  of  year  —  she  in  the  state  of  health 
that  you  describe  —  to  face  this  heat,  and  the 
journey  home,  without  comforts,  without  assist- 
ance? It  is  a  great  responsibility,  Miss  Foster, 
568 


that  you  take,  with  me,  and  with  her  !  I  refuse 
to  yield  it  to  you,  till  I  have  given  you  at  least 
a  little  further  time  for  consideration.  I  shall 
stay  here  a  few  hours  longer.  If  you  change 
your  mind,  send  to  me — I  am  with  Father  Be- 
necke.  If  not — good-bye  !  But  I  warn  you  that 
I  will  be  no  party  to  further  mystification.  It 
is  undesirable  for  us  all.  I  shall  write  at  once 
to  General  Delafield-Muir,  and  to  my  aunt.  I 
think  it  will  be  also  my  duty  to  communicate 
with  your  friends  in  London  or  in  Boston." 

"  Mr.  Manisty  ! — let  me  beg"  of  you  to  leave  my 
personal  affairs  alone  !'* 

She  felt  again  the  proud  flush  upon  her  cheek, 
the  shock  of  their  two  wills,  the  mingled  anguish 
and  relief  as  she  saw  him  turn  upon  his  heel,  and 

go- 

Ah  !  how  unready,  how  gauche  she  had  shown 
herself !  From  the  beginning  instead  of  concil- 
iating she  had  provoked  him.  But  how  to  make  a 
plausible  story  out  of  their  adventure  at  all  ?  There 
was  the  deciding,  the  fatal  difficulty  !  Her  face 
burned  anew  as  she  tried  to  think  his  thoughts, 
to  imagine  all  that  he  might  or  must  guess  ;  as 
she  remembered  the  glow  of  swift  instinctive 
triumph  with  which  he  had  recognized  her,  and 
realized  from  it  some  of  the  ideas  that  must 
have  been  his  travelling  companions  all  these 
weeks. 

No  matter  :  let  him  think  what  he  pleased  ! 
She  sat  there  in  the  gathering  dark  ;  at  one  mo- 
ment, feeling  herself  caught  in  the  grip  of  a 
569 


moral  necessity  that  no  rebellion  could  undo; 
and  the  next,  childishly  catching  to  her  heart  the 
echoes  and  images  of  that  miserable  half-hour. 

No  wonder  he  had  been  angry  ! 

''Lucy  r 

Her  name  was  sweetened  to  her  ear  forevei 
He  looked  wayworn  and  tired ;   yet  so  eager,  so 
spiritually  alert.      Never  had    that  glitter   and 
magic  he  carried  about  with  him  been  more  po- 
tent, more  compelling. 

Alack  !  what  woman  ever  yet  refused  to  love  a 
man  because  he  loved  himself?  It  depends  en- 
tirely on  how  she  estimates  the  force  of  his  temp- 
tation. And  it  would  almost  seem  as  though  nat- 
ure, for  her  own  secret  reason,  had  thrown  a 
special  charm  round  the  egotist  of  all  types,  for 
the  loving  and  the  true.  Is  it  that  she  is  think- 
ing of  the  race — must  needs  balance  in  it  the 
forces  of  death  and  life?  What  matters  the 
separate  joy  or  pain  ! 

Yes.  Lucy  would  have  given  herself  to  Man- 
isty,  not  blind  to  risks,  expecting  thorns  ! — if  it 
had  been  possible. 

But  it  was  not  possible.  She  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  sternly  dismissed  her  thoughts.  She  was  no 
conscious  thief,  no  willing  traitor.  Not  even  Elea- 
nor should  persuade  her.  Eleanor  was  dying  be- 
cause she,  Lucy,  had  stolen  from  her  the  affections 
of  her  inconstant  lover.  Was  there  any  get- 
ting over  that?  None  !  The  girl  shrank  in  hor- 
ror from  the  very  notion  of  such  a  base  and 
plundering  happiness. 

S70 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

ON  the  following  morning  when  Lucy  en- 
tered Eleanor's  room  she  found  her  giv- 
ing some  directions  to  Marie. 

"Tell  Mamma  Doni  that  we  give  up  the  rooms 
next  week  —  Friday  in  next  week.  Make  her 
understand." 

"  Par  fait  entente  madame."  And  Marie  left  the 
room." 

Lucy  advanced  with  a  face  of  dismay. 

"Ten  days  more  ! — Eleanor.'* 

Eleanor  tapped  her  lightly  on  the  cheek,  then 
kissed  her,  laughing. 

"  Are  you  too  hot  ?" 

"  Dear  ! — don't  talk  about  me  !  But  you  prom- 
ised me  to  be  gone  before  August." 

She  knelt  down  by  Eleanor's  bedside,  holding 
her  hands,  imploring  her  with  her  deep  blue 
eyes. 

"  Well,  it's  only  a  few  days  more,"  said  Elea- 
nor, guiltily.  "  Do  let's  take  it  leisurely  !  It's  so 
horrid  to  be  hurried  in  one's  packing.  Look  at 
all  these  things  !" 

She  waved  her  hand  desperately  round  the 
571 


little  room,  choked  up  with  miscellaneous  boxes ; 
then  laid  both  hands  on  Lucy's  shoulders,  coax- 
ing and  smiling  at  her  like  a  child. 

Lucy  soon  convinced  herself  that  it  was  of  no 
use  to  argue.  She  must  just  submit,  unless  she 
were  prepared  to  go  to  lengths  of  self-assertion 
which  might  excite  Eleanor  and  bring  on  a  heart 
attack. 

So,  setting  her  teeth,  she  yielded. 

"Friday  week,  then — for  the  last,  last  day  !— 
And  Mr.  Manisty  ?" 

She  had  risen  from  her  knees  and  stood  look- 
ing down  at  Eleanor.  Her  cheek  had  reddened, 
but  Eleanor  admired  her  stateliness. 

"  Oh,  we  must  keep  Edward.  We  want  him 
for  courier.  I  gave  you  trouble  enough,  on  the 
journey  here." 

Lucy  said  nothing.  Her  heart  swelled  a  little. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  under  all  this  sweetness 
she  was  being  treated  with  a  certain  violence. 
She  went  to  the  balcony,  where  the  breakfast 
had  just  been  laid,  that  she  might  bring  Elea- 
nor's coffee. 

"  It  is  just  a  little  crude,"  Eleanor  thought,  un- 
easily. "Dear  bird! — the  net  is  sadly  visible. 
But  what  can  one  do? — with  so  little  time — so 
few  chances  !  Once  part  them,  and  the  game  is 
up  !" 

So  she  used  her  weakness  once  more  as  a  tyr- 
anny, this  time  for  different  ends. 

The  situation  that  she  dictated  was  certainly 
difficult  enough.  Manisty  appeared,  by  her  sum- 
572 


ftions,  in  the  afternoon,  and  found  them  on  the 
loggia.  Lucy  greeted  him  with  a  cold  self-pos- 
Session.  Of  all  that  had  passed  on  the  previous 
day,  naturally,  not  a  word.  So  far  as  allusions 
to  the  past  were  concerned,  the  three  might  have 
parted  the  day  before  at  Marinata.  Eleanor  very 
flushed,  and  dressed  in  her  elegant  white  dress 
and  French  hat,  talked  fast  and  well,  of  the  coun- 
try folk,  the  padre  parroco,  the  Contessa.  Lucy 
looked  at  her  with  alarm,  dreading  the  after 
fatigue.  But  Eleanor  would  not  be  managed; 
would  have  her  way. 

Manisty,  however,  was  no  longer  deceived.  Lucy 
was  aware  of  some  of  the  glances  that  he  threw 
his  cousin.  The  trouble  which  they  betrayed  gave 
the  girl  a  bitter  satisfaction. 

Presently  she  left  them  alone.  After  her  dis- 
appearance Eleanor  turned  to  Manisty  with  a 
smile. 

"  On  your  peril— not  another  word  to  her  ! — till 
I  give  you  leave.     That  would  finish  it." 

He  lifted  hands  and  shoulders  in  a  despairing 
gesture  ;  but  said  nothing.  In  Lucy's  absence, 
however,  then  and  later,  he  did  not  attempt  to 
control  his  depression,  and  Eleanor  was  soon  dis- 
tracting and  comforting  him  in  the  familiar  ways 
of  the  past.  Before  forty-eight  hours  had  passed 
the  relations  between  them  indeed  had  resumed, 
to  all  appearance^  the  old  and  close  intimacy. 
Oh  his  arm  she  crept  down  the  road,  to  the  Sas- 
setto,  while  Lucy  drove  with  the  Contessa.  Or 
Mknldt^  rgad  aloud  to  her  on  the  loggia^  whilft 
573 


Lucy  in  the  court-yard  below  sat  chatting  fast  to 
a  swarm  of  village  children  who  would  always 
henceforward  associate  her  white  dress  and  the 
pure  oval  of  her  face  with  their  dreams  of  the 
Madonna. 

In  their  tete-a-tetes,  the  talk  of  Manisty  and 
Eleanor  was  always  either  of  Lucy  or  of  Manis- 
ty's  own  future.  He  had  been  at  first  embar- 
rassed or  reluctant.  But  she  had  insisted,  and 
he  had  at  length  revealed  himself  as  in  truth  he 
had  never  revealed  himself  in  the  days  of  their 
early  friendship.  With  him  at  least,  Eleanor 
through  all  anguish  had  remained  mistress  of 
herself,  and  she  had  her  reward.  No  irreparable 
word  had  passed  between  them.  The  past  was 
buried,  and  a  new  bond  arose.  The  stifled  re- 
proaches, the  secret  impatiences,  the  ennuis,  the 
hidden  anguish  of  those  last  weeks  at  Marinata 
were  gone.  Manisty,  freed  from  the  pressure  of 
an  unspoken  claim  which  his  conscience  half  ac- 
knowledged and  his  will  repulsed,  was  for  his 
cousin  a  new  creature.  He  began  to  treat  her  as 
he  had  treated  his  friend  Neal,  with  the  same  af- 
fectionate consideration,  the  same  easy  sweetness ; 
even  through  all  the  torments  that  Lucy  made 
him  suffer.  "His  restlessness  as  a  lover,  —  his 
excellence  as  a  friend," — so  a  man  who  knew  him 
well  had  written  of  him  in  earlier  days.  As  for 
the  lover,  discipline  and  penance  had  overtaken 
him.  But  now  that  Eleanor's  claim  of  another 
kind  was  dead,  the  friend  in  him  had  scope.  Elea- 
nor possessed  him  as  the  lover  of  Lucy  more  tru- 
574 


ly  than  she  had  ever  yet  done  in  the  days  when 
she  ruled  alone. 

One  evening  finding  her  more  feeble  than  usual, 
he  implored  her  to  let  him  summon  a  doctor  from 
Rome  before  she  risked  the  fatigue  of  the  Mont 
Cenis  journey. 

But  she  refused.  ''  If  necessary,"  she  said,  "  I 
will  go  to  Orvieto.  There  is  a  good  man  there. 
But  there  is  some  one  else  you  shall  write  to,  if 
you  like:  —  Reggie!  Didn't  you  see  him  last 
week  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Reggie  and  the  first  secretary  left 
in  charge,  sitting  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  with  no 
tempers  to  speak  of,  and  the  thermometer  at  96. 
But  Reggie  was  to  get  his  holiday  directly." 

*' Write  and  catch  him." 

"Tell  him  to  come  not  later  than  Tuesday, 
please,"  said  Lucy,  quietly,  who  was  standing  by. 

"  Despot !"  said  Eleanor,  looking  up.  *'  Are  we 
really  tied  and  bound  to  Friday  ?" 

Lucy  smiled  and  nodded.  When  she  went 
away  Manisty  sat  in  a  black  silence,  staring  at 
the  ground.  Eleanor  bit  her  lip,  grew  a  little 
restless,  and  at  last  said  : 

"  She  gives  you  no  openings  ?" 

Manisty  laughed. 

"  Except  for  rebuffs  !"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  Don't  provoke  them  !" 

"  How  can  I  behave  as  though  that — that  scene 
had  never  passed  between  us?  In  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances my  staying  on  here  would  be  an 
offence,  of  which  she  might  justly  complain.  I 
575 


told  her  last  night  I  would  have  gone — but  for 
your  health." 

*'  When  did  you  tell  her  ?" 

"  I  found  her  alone  here  for  a  moment  before 
dinner." 

"Well?" 

Manisty  moved  impatiently. 

"  Oh  !  she  was  very  calm.  Nothing  I  say  puts 
her  out.  She  thought  I  might  be  useful ! — And 
she  hopes  Aunt  Pattie  will  meet  us  in  London, 
that  she  may  be  free  to  start  for  New  York  by 
the  loth,  if  her  friends  go  then.  She  has  written 
to  them." 

Eleanor  was  silent. 

"  I  must  have  it  out  with  her  !"  said  Manisty 
presently  under  his  breath.  In  his  unrest  he 
rose,  that  he  might  move  about.  His  face  had 
grown  pale. 

"  No — wait  till  I  give  you  leave,"  said  Eleanor 
again,  imploring.  "  I  never  forget — for  a  moment. 
Leave  it  to  me." 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her.  She  put  out 
her  hand,  which  he  took. 

"  Do  you  still  believe — what  you  said  ?"  he  asked 
her,  huskily. 

Eleanor  looked  up  smiling. 

"A  thousand  times  more  !"  she  said,  under  her 
breath.     "  A  thousand  times  more  !" 

But  here  the  conversation  reached  an  impasse. 
Manisty  could  not  say — "  Then  why  ?— in  Heaven's 
name  !" — for  he  knew  why.  Only  it  was  not  a 
why  that  he  and  Eleanor  could  discuss.     Every 


hour  he  realized  more  plainly  with  what  com- 
pleteness Eleanor  held  him  in  her  hands.  The 
situation  was  galling.  But  her  sweetness  and 
his  own  remorse  disarmed  him.  To  be  help- 
less—  and  to  be  kind!  —  nothing  else  apparent- 
ly remained  to  him.  The  only  gracious  look 
Lucy  had  vouchsafed  him  these  two  days  had 
been  in  reward  for  some  new  arrangement  of 
Eleanor's  sofa  which  had  given  the  invalid 
greater  ease. 

He  returned  to  his  seat,  smiling  queerly. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  the  only  person  in  disgrace. 
Do  you  notice  how  Benecke  is  treated?" 

"She  avoids  him?" 

"  She  never  speaks  to  him  if  she  can  help  it.  I 
know  that  he  feels  it." 

"  He  risked  his  penalty,"  said  Eleanor  laugh- 
ing. "I  think  he  must  bear  it."  Then  in  an- 
other tone,  and  very  softly,  she  added — 

"  Poor  child !" 

Manisty  thought  the  words  particularly  inap- 
propriate. In  all  his  experience  of  women  he 
never  remembered  a  more  queenly  and  less  child- 
ish composure  than  Lucy  had  been  able  to  show 
him  since  their  scene  on  the  hill.  It  had  en- 
larged all  his  conceptions  of  her.  His  passion 
for  her  was  thereby  stimulated  and  tormented, 
yet  at  the  same  time  glorified  in  his  own  eyes. 
He  saw  in  her  already  the  gra?ide  dame  of  the 
future  —  that  his  labor,  his  ambitions,  and  his 
gifts  should  make  of  her. 

I^  only  Eleanor  spoke  the  truth ! 
577 


The  following  day  Manisty,  returning  from  a 
late  walk  with  Father  Benecke,  parted  from  the 
priest  on  the  hill,  and  mounted  the  garden  stair- 
way to  the  loggia. 

Lucy  was  sitting  there  alone,  her  embroidery 
in  her  hands. 

She  had  not  heard  him  in  the  garden ;  and 
when  he  suddenly  appeared  she  was  not  able  to 
hide  a  certain  agitation.  She  got  up  and  began 
vaguely  to  put  away  her  silks  and  thimble. 

"  I  won't  disturb  you,"  he  said  formally.  "  Has 
Eleanor  not  come  back?" 

For  Eleanor  had  been  driving  with  the  Con- 
tessa. 

"Yes.     But  she  has  been  resting  since." 

"  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  he  said  again. 

Then  he  looked  at  her  fingers  and  their  un- 
certain  movements  among  the  silks ;  at  the  face 
bent  over  the  work-basket. 

"  I  want  if  I  can  to  keep  some  bad  news  from 
my  cousin,"  he  said  abruptly. 

Lucy  started  and  looked  up.  He  had  her  face 
full  now,  and  the  lovely  entreating  eyes. 

"  My  sister  is  very  ill.  There  has  been  another 
crisis.     I  might  be  summoned  at  any  time." 

"  Oh  !" — she  said,  faltering.  Unconsciously  she 
moved- a  step  nearer  to  him.  In  a  moment  she 
was  all  inquiry,  and  deep,  shy  sympathy — the  old 
docile  Lucy.  "Have  you  had  a  letter?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  this  morning.  I  saw  her  the  other  day 
when  I  passed  through  Rome.  She  knew  me, 
578 


but  she  is  a  wreck.  The  whole  constitution  is 
affected.  Sometimes  there  are  intervals,  but 
they  get  rarer.  And  each  acute  attack  weakens 
her  seriously." 

"  It  is  terrible— terrible  !" 

As  she  stood  there  before  him  in  her  white 
dress  under  the  twilight,  he  had  a  vision  of  her 
lying  with  shut  eyes  in  his  chair  at  Marinata; 
he  remembered  the  first  wild  impulse  that  had 
bade  him  gather  her,  unconscious  and  helpless, 
in  his  arms. 

He  moved  away  from  her.  For  something  to 
do,  or  say,  he  stooped  down  to  look  at  something 
in  her  open  work-basket. 

"  Isn't  that  one  of  the  Nemi  terracottas?" 

He  blundered  into  the  question  from  sheer 
nervousness,  wishing  it  unspoken  the  instant  it 
was  out. 

Lucy  started.  She  had  forgotten.  How  could 
she  have  forgotten !  There  in  a  soft  bed  of 
many-colored  silks,  wrapped  tenderly  about,  yet 
so  as  to  show  the  face  and  crown,  was  the  little 
Artemis.  The  others  were  beneath  the  tray  of 
the  box.  But  this  for  greater  safety  lay  by 
itself,  a  thin  fold  of  cotton-wool  across  its  face. 
In  that  moment  of  confusion  when  he  had  ap- 
peared on  the  loggia  she  had  somehow  displaced 
the  cotton-wool  without  knowing  it,  and  uncov- 
ered the  head. 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  Artemis,"  she  said,  trying  to 
keep  herself  from  trembling. 

Manisty  bent  without  speaking,  and  took  the 
579 


little  thing  into  his  hand.  He  thought  of  that 
other  lovelier  head — her  likeness? — whereof  the 
fragments  were  at  that  moment  in  a  corner  of 
his  dressing-case,  after  journeying  with  him 
through  the  mountains. 

As  for  Lucy  it  was  to  her  as  though  the  little 
head  nestling  in  his  hand  must  somehow  carry 
there  the  warmth  of  her  kisses  upon  it,  must 
somehow  betray  her.  He  seemed  to  hold  a  frag- 
ment of  her  heart. 

"  Please  let  me  put  it  away,"  she  said  hurried- 
ly. "  I  must  go  to  Eleanor.  It  is  nearly  time  for 
dinner." 

He  gave  it  up  silently.  She  replaced  it, 
smoothed  down  her  silks  and  her  work,  and  shut 
the  box.  His  presence,  his  sombre  look,  and 
watching  eye,  affected  her  all  the  time  electri- 
cally. She  had  never  yet  been  so  near  the  loss 
of  self-command. 

The  thought  of  Eleanor  calmed  her.  As  she 
finished  her  little  task,  she  paused  and  spoke 
again. 

"You  won't  alarm  her  about  poor  Miss  Man- 
isty,  without— without  consulting  with  me?"  she 
said  timidly. 

He  bowed. 

"Would  you  rather  I  did  not  tell  her  at  all? 
But  if  I  have  to  go?" 

"Yes  then — then  you  must." 

Ah  instant — and  she  added  hastily  in  a  voice 
that  wavered,  "  I  am  so  very,  very  sorry " 

•*  Thank  you.     She  often  asks  about  you," 
580 


He  spoke  with  a  formal  courtesy,  in  his  "grand 
manner."  Her  gleam  of  feeling  had  made  him 
sensible  of  advantage,  given  him  back  self-con- 
fidence. 

The  soft  flutter  of  her  dress  disappeared,  and 
he  was  left  to  pace  up  and  down  the  loggia  in 
alternations  of  hope  and  despair.  He,  too,  felt 
with  Eleanor  that  these  days  were  fatal.  If  he 
lost  her  now,  he  lost  her  forever.  She  was  of 
those  natures  in  which  a  scruple  only  deepens 
with  time. 

She  would  not  take  what  should  have  been 
Eleanor's.  There  was  the  case  in  a  nutshell. 
And  how  insist  in  these  circumstances,  as  he 
would  have  done  vehemently  in  any  other,  that 
Eleanor  had  no  lawful  grievance? 

He  felt  himself  bound  and  pricked  by  a  thou- 
sand vielicate  Liliputian  bonds.  The  "  regiment 
of  women  "  was  complete.  He  could  do  nothing. 
Oply  Eleanor  could  help. 

The  following  day,  just  outside  the  convent 
gate,  he  met  Lucy,  returning  from  the  village, 
whither  she  had  been  in  quest  of  some  frer>h  figs 
for  Eleanor's  breakfast.  It  was  barely  eight 
o'clock,  but  the  sun  was  already  fierce.  After 
their  formal  greeting,  Lucy  lingered  a  moment. 

"  It's  going  to  be  frightfully  hot  to-day,"  she 
said,  looking  round  her  with  a  troubled  face  at 
the  glaring  road,  at  the  dusty  patch  of  vines  be- 
yond it,  at  the  burned  grass  below  the  garden 
wall.  ''Mr.  Manisty !  —  you  will  make  Eleanor 
581 


go  next  F^riday? — you  won't  let  her  put  it  of? — 
for  anything?" 

She  turned  to  him,  in  entreaty,  the  color  dyeing 
her  pure  cheek  and  throat. 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can.  I  understand  your 
anxiety,"  he  said  stiffly. 

She  opened  the  old  door  of  the  court-yard  and 
passed  in  before  him.  As  he  rejoined  her,  she 
asked  him  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Have  you  any  more  news  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  found  a  letter  at  Selvapendente  last 
night.  The  state  of  things  is  better.  There 
will  be  no  need  I  hope  to  alarm  Eleanor — for  the 
present." 

"  I  am  so  glad  !" — The  voice  hurried  and  then 
paused.  "  And  of  course,  for  you  too,"  she  added, 
with  difficulty. 

He  said  nothing,  and  they  walked  up  to  the 
inner  door  in  silence.  Then  as  they  paused  on 
the  threshold,  he  said  suddenly,  with  a  bitter  ac- 
cent— 

"  You  are  very  devoted  !" 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Her  young 
figure  drew  itself  erect.  "  That  isn't  wonderful — 
is  it?— with  her?" 

Her  tone  pierced  him. 

"  Oh  !  nothing's  wonderful  in  women.  You  set 
the  standard  so  high — the  men  can't  follow." 

He  stared  at  her,  pale  and  frowning.  She 
laughed  artificially,  but  he  could  see  the  breath 
hurrying  under  the  blue  cotton  dress. 

"  Not  at  all !  When  it  comes  to  the  serious  diffi- 
582 


cuities  we  must,  it  seems,  apply  to  you.  Sleanof 
is  thankful  that  you  will  take  her  home." 

"  Oh  !  I  can  be  a  decent  courier — when  I  put 
my  mind  into  it,"  he  said  angrily.  "  That,  I  dare 
say,  you'll  admit." 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  she  said,  with  a  lip  that 
smiled  unsteadily.  "I  know  it'll  be  invaluable. 
Please,  Mr.  Manisty,  let  me  pass.  I  must  get  Elea- 
nor her  breakfast." 

But  he  still  stood  there,  barring  the  way. 

"  Then,  Miss  Foster,  admit  something  else  ! — 
that  I  am  not  the  mere  intruder — the  mere  bur- 
den— that  you  took  me  for." 

The  man's  soreness  expressed  itself  in  every 
word,  every  movement. 

Lucy  grew  white. 

"  For  Eleanor's  sake,  I  am  glad  you  came,"  she 
said  struggling  for  composure.  But  the  dignity, 
the  pride  behind  the  agitation  were  so  evident 
that  he  dared  not  go  a  step  farther.  He  bowed, 
and  let  her  pass. 

Meanwhile  the  Contessa  was  useful.  After  a 
very  little  observation,  based  on  the  sugges- 
tions of  her  letter  from  Rome,  she  divined  the 
situation  exactly.  Her  affection  and  pity  for 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  grew  apace.  Lucy  she  both  ad- 
mired and  acquitted  ;  while  she  half  liked,  half 
hated  Manisty.  He  provoked  her  perpetually  to 
judgment,  intellectual  and  moral ;  and  they  fell 
into  many  a  sparring  which  passed  the  time  and 
made  a  shelter  for  the  others.  Her  daughter 
583 


had  just  left  her;  and  the  more  she  smarted,  the 
more  she  bustled  in  and  out  of  the  village,  the 
more  she  drove  about  the  country,  attending  to 
the  claims,  the  sicknesses,  and  the  animals  of  dis- 
tant contadini^  the  more  she  read  her  newspapers, 
and  the  more  nimbly  did  her  mind  move. 

Like  the  Marchesa  Fazzoleni,  she  would  have 
no  pessimism  about  Italy,  though  she  saw  things 
in  a  less  poetic,  more  practical  way. 

"  I  dare  say  the  taxes  are  heavy — and  that  our 
officials  and  bankers  and  impiegati  are  not  on 
as  good  terms  as  they  might  be  with  the  Eighth 
Commandment.  Well !  was  ever  a  nation  made 
in  a  night  before?  When  your  Queen  came  to 
the  throne,  were  you  English  so  immaculate? 
You  talk  about  our  Socialists — have  we  any  dis- 
turbances, pray,  worse  than  your  disturbances 
in  the  twenties  and  thirties  ?  The  parocco  says 
to  me  day  after  day  :  '  The  African  campaign 
has  been  the  ruin  of  Italy  !'  That's  only  be- 
cause he  wants  it  to  be  so.  The  machine  marches, 
and  the  people  pay  their  taxes,  and  farming  im- 
proves every  year,  all  the  same.  A  month  or 
two  ago,  the  newspapers  were  full  of  the  mob- 
bing of  trains  starting  with  soldiers  for  Ery- 
threa.  Yet  all  that  time,  if  you  went  down  into 
the  Campo  de  Fiori  you  could  find  poems  sold 
for  a  soldo,  that  only  the  people  wrote  and  the 
people  read,  that  were  as  patriotic  as  the  poor 
King  himself." 

"Ah!  I  know,"  said  Manisty.     "I  have  seen 
some  of  them.     The  oddest,  naivest  things  ! — the 
584 


metre  of  Tasso,  the  thoughts  of  a  child  —  and 
every  now  and  then  the  cry  of  a  poet." 

And  he  repeated  a  stanza  or  two  from  these 
broad-sheets  of  the  war,  in  a  rolling  and  musical 
Italian. 

The  Contessa  looked  at  him  with  cool  admira- 
tion ;  and  then  aside,  at  Lucy.  Certainly,  when 
this  Englishman  was  taking  pains,  his  good  looks 
deserved  all  that  could  be  said  of  them.  That  he 
was  one  of  the  temperaments  to  which  other 
lives  minister  without  large  return — that  she  had 
divined  at  once.  But,  like  Lucy,  she  was  not 
damped  by  that.  The  Contessa  had  known  few 
illusions,  and  only  one  romance ;  her  love  for  her 
dead  son.  Otherwise  she  took  the  world  as  it 
came,  and  quarrelled  with  very  few  of  its  marked 
and  persistent  phenomena. 

They  were  sitting  on  a  terrace  beneath  the 
northwestern  front  of  the  Palazzo.  The  terrace 
was  laid  out  in  a  formal  garden.  Fountains 
played ;  statues  stood  in  rows  ;  and  at  the  edge 
cypresses,  black  against  the  evening  blue  and 
rose,  threw  back  the  delicate  dimness  of  the 
mountains,  made  their  farness  more  far,  and  the 
gay  foreground — oleanders,  geraniums,  nastur- 
tiums— more  gay. 

Eleanor  was  lying  on  a  deck-chair,  smiling  often, 
and  at  ease.  Lucy  sat  a  little  apart,  busy  with 
her  embroidery.  She  very  seldom  talked,  but 
Eleanor  could  not  make  a  movement  or  feel  a 
want  without  her  being  aware  of  it. 

"  But,  madame,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  make  an 
u  58s 


enemy  out  of  me !"— said  Manisty  to  the  Contessa, 
resuming  the  conversation.  "When  you  talk  to 
me  of  this  country  and  its  future,  vous  prechez 
un  convert^ 

"  I  thought  you  were  the  Jonah  of  our  day," 
she  said,  with  her  abrupt  and  rather  disdainful 
smile. 

Manisty  laughed. 

"A  Jonah  who  needn't  complain  anyway  that 
his  Nineveh  is  too  ready  to  hear  him." 

"  Where  is  the  preaching?"  she  asked. 

"  In  the  waste  -  paper  basket,"  said  Manisty, 
throwing  away  his  cigarette.  "  Nowadays,  ap- 
parently it  is  the  prophets  who  repent." 

Involuntarily  his  eye  wandered,  sought  for 
Lucy — withdrew.  She  was  hidden  behind  her 
work. 

"  Oh !  preach  away,"  cried  the  Contessa.  "  Take 
up  your  book  again.  Publish  it.  We  can  bear 
it" 

Manisty  searched  with  both  hands  for  his 
matches;  his  new  cigarette  between  his  lips. 

"My  book,  madame" — he  said  coolly — "out- 
lived the  pleasure  its  author  took  in  writing  it. 
My  cousin  was  its  good  angel  ;  but  not  even  she 
could  bring  a  blunder  to  port.  Eleanor  ! — rt'est- 
cepasr 

He  gathered  a  spray  of  oleander  that  grew  near 
him,  and  laid  it  on  her  hand,  like  a  caress.  Elea- 
nor's emaciated  fingers  closed  upon  it  gently. 
She  looked  up,  smiling.  The  Contessa  abruptly 
turned  away. 

586 


**  And  besides — "  said  Manisty. 

He  puffed  away  steadily,  with  liis  gaze  on  the 
mountains. 

"  I  wait,"  said  the  Contessa. 

"  Your  Italy  is  a  witch,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden 
lifting  of  eyes  and  voice,  "  and  there  are  too  many 
people  that  love  her  !" 

Lucy  bent  a  little  lower  over  her  work. 

Presently  the  Contessa  went  away. 

Eleanor  lay  with  eyes  closed  and  hands  crossed, 
very  white  and  still.  They  thought  her  asleep, 
for  it  was  common  with  her  now  to  fall  into  short 
sleeps  of  pure  exhaustion.  When  they  occurred, 
those  near  her  kept  tender  and  generally  silent 
watch,  joining  hands  of  protection,  as  it  were, 
round  her  growing  feebleness. 

After  a  few  minutes,  however,  Manisty  bent 
across  towards  Lucy. 

**You  urged  me  once  to  finish  the  book.  But 
it  was  she  who  told  me  the  other  day  she  was 
thankful  it  had  been  dropped." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  half  irritable,  half 
sensitive  expression  that  she  knew  so  well. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lucy,  hurriedly.  "  It  was 
much  best." 

She  rose  and  stooped  over  Eleanor. 

"  Dear ! — It  is  getting  late.  I  think  I  ought  to 
call  the  carriage." 

"  Let  me,"  said  Manisty,  biting  his  lip. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lucy,  formally  "The 
coachman  understood  we  should  want  him  at 
seven." 

587 


When  he  came  back,  Lucy  went  into  the  house 
to  fetch  some  wraps. 

Eleanor  opened  her  eyes,  which  were  singularly 
animated  and  smiling. 

"  Listen  !" 

He  stooped. 

"  Be  angry  !"  she  said,  laying  a  light  grasp  on 
his  arm.  "Be  quite  angry.  Now  —  you  may! 
It  will  do  no  harm." 

He  sat  beside  her,  his  head  bent ;  gloomily  lis- 
tening, till  Lucy  reappeared. 

But  he  took  the  hint,  calling  to  his  aid  all  his 
pride,  and  all  his  singular  power  of  playing  any 
role  in  his  own  drama  that  he  might  desire  to 
play.  He  played  it  with  energy,  with  despera- 
tion, counting  meanwhile  each  hour  as  it  passed, 
having  in  view  always  that  approaching  moment 
in  London  when  Lucy  would  disappear  within 
the  doors  of  the  Porters'  house,  leaving  the  but- 
ler to  meet  the  demands  of  unwelcome  visitors 
with  such  equivalents  of  "  Not  at  home  "  as  her 
Puritan  scruples  might  allow;  till  the  newspapers 
should  announce  the  safe  sailing  of  her  steamer 
for  New  York. 

He  ceased  to  propitiate  her;  he  dropped  em- 
barrassment. He  ignored  her.  He  became  the 
man  of  the  world  and  of  affairs,  whose  European 
interests  and  relations  are  not  within  the  ken  of 
raw  young  ladies  from  Vermont.  He  had  never 
been  more  brilliant,  more  interesting,  more  agree- 
able, for  Eleanor,  for  the  Contessa,  for  Benecke ; 
for  all  the  world,  save  one.  He  described  his 
S88 


wanderings  among  the  Calabrian  highlands.  He 
drew  the  peasants,  the  priests,  the  great  land- 
owners of  the  south  still  surrounded  with  their 
semi-feudal  state ;  he  made  Eleanor  laugh  or 
shudder  with  his  tales  of  the  brigandage  of  the 
sixties  ;  he  talked  as  the  artist  and  the  scholar 
may  of  the  Greek  memories  and  remains  of  the 
Tarentine  coast.  Then  he  turned  to  English 
politics,  to  his  own  chances,  and  the  humors  of 
his  correspondence.  The  Contessa  ceased  to 
quarrel  with  him.  The  handsome  Englishman 
with  the  color  of  a  Titian,  and  the  features  of  an 
antique,  with  his  eloquence,  his  petulance,  his 
conceit,  his  charm,  filled  the  stage,  quickened 
the  dull  hours  whenever  he  appeared,  Eleanor's 
tragedy  explained  itself.  The  elder  woman  un- 
derstood and  pitied.  As  for  Lucy  Foster,  the 
Contessa's  shrewd  eyes  watched  her  with  a  new 
respect.  At  what  stage,  in  truth,  was  the  play, 
and  how  would  it  end  ? 

Meanwhile  for  Lucy  Foster  alone,  Manisty  was 
not  agreeable.  He  rose  formally  when  she  ap- 
peared ;  he  placed  her  chair  ;  he  paid  her  all 
necessary  courtesies.  But  his  conversation  never 
included  her.  Her  coming  generally  coincided — 
after  she  was  ceremoniously  provided  for — with 
an  outbreak  of  talk  between  him  and  Eleanor,  or 
between  him  and  Benecke,  more  eager,  animated 
■  and  interesting  than  before.  But  Lucy  had  no 
part  in  it.  It  was  not  the  early  neglect  and  in- 
civility of  the  villa;  it  was  something  infinitely 
colder  and  more  wounding;  the  frigidity  of  disil- 
589 


lusion  and  resentment,  of  kindness  rebuffed  and 
withdrawn. 

Lucy  said  nothing.  She  went  about  her  day's 
work  as  usual,  making  all  arrangements  for  their 
departure,  devoting  herself  to  Eleanor.  Every 
now  and  then  she  was  forced  to  consult  with 
Manisty  as  to  arrangements  for  the  journey. 
They  spoke  as  mere  acquaintances  and  no  more 
than  was  necessary  ;  while  she,  when  she  was 
alone,  would  spend  much  time  in  a  silent  ab- 
straction, thinking  of  her  uncle,  of  the  duties  to 
which  she  was  returning,  and  the  lines  of  her 
future  life.  Perhaps  in  the  winter  she  might  do 
some  teaching.  Several  people  in  Grayridge  had 
said  they  would  employ  her. 

And,  all  the  time,  during  the  night  hours  when 
she  was  thus  wrestling  down  her  heart,  Manisty 
was  often  pacing  the  forest  paths,  in  an  orgie  of 
smoke  and  misery,  cursing  the  incidents  of  the 
day,  raging,  doubting,  suffering — as  no  woman 
had  yet  made  him  suffer.  The  more  truly  he 
despaired,  the  more  he  desired  her.  The  strength 
of  the  moral  life  in  her  was  a  revelation,  a  chal- 
lenge to  all  the  forces  of  his  own  being.  He  was 
not  accustomed  to  have  to  consider  such  things 
in  women.  It  added  to  her  a  wealth,  a  rarity, 
which  made  the  conquest  of  her  the  only  object 
worth  pursuing  in  a  life  swept  bare  for  the  mo- 
ment of  all  other  passions  and  zests.  She  loved 
him !  Eleanor  knew  it;  Eleanor  declared  it.  Yet 
in  ten  days'  time  she  would  say,  —  "Good-bye, 
Mr,  Manisty  " —  with  that  calm  brow  whicli  he 
590 


already  foresaw  as  an  outrage  and  offence  to 
love.  Ah !  for  some  means  to  cloud  those  dear 
eyes  —  to  make  her  weep,  and  let  him  see  the 
tears ! 


CHAPTER    XXV 

'  ¥     I  ULLO,  Manisty  !  — is  that  you?    Is  this 

I      I     the  place  ?" 

•■•  *  The  speaker  was  Reggie  Brooklyn, 
who  was  dismounting  from  his  bicycle  at  the 
door  of  the  convent,  followed  by  a  clattering  mob 
of  village  children,  who  had  pursued  him  down 
the  hill. 

"  I  say,  what  a  weird  place !"  said  Reggie,  look- 
ing about  him,— "and  at  the  other  end  of  no- 
where.   What  on  earth  made  Eleanor  come  here?^ 

He  looked  at  Manisty  in  perplexity,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow,  which  frowned  be- 
neath his  fair  curls. 

**  We  were  here  last  year,"  said  Manisty,  "  on 
that  little  tour  we  made  with  the  D.s.  Eleanor 
liked  it  then.  She  came  here  when  the  heat  be- 
gan, she  thought  it  would  be  cool." 

**  You  didn't  know  where  she  was  ten  days  ago," 
said  the  boy,  looking  at  him  queerly.  "And  Gen- 
eral Muir  didn't  know,  for  I  heard  from  some  one 
who  had  seen  him  last  week." 

Manisty  laughed. 

"  All  the  same,  she  is  here  now,"  he  said  dryly. 
592 


'*  And  Miss  Foster  is  here  too  ?" 

Manisty  nodded. 

"  And  you  say  that  Eleanor  is  ill  ?" 

The  young  man  had  still  the  same  hostile,  sus- 
picious air. 

Manisty,  who  had  been  poking  at  the  ground 
with  his  stick,  looked  up.  Brooklyn  made  a  step 
backward 

'*  Very  ill,"  he  said,  with  a  face  of  consternation. 
*' And  nobody  knew  ?" 

**  She  would  not  let  us  know,"  said  Manisty 
slowly.  Then  he  added,  with  the  authority  of 
the  older  man,  the  man  in  charge — "  now  we  are 
doing  all  we  can.  We  start  on  Friday  and  pick 
up  a  nurse  at  Genoa,  When  we  get  home,  of 
course  she  will  have  the  best  advice.  Very  often 
she  is  wonderfully  bright  and  like  herself.  Oh ! 
we  shall  pull  her  round.  But  you  mustn't  tire 
her.     Don't  stay  too  long." 

They  walked  into  the  convent  together,  Brook- 
lyn all  impatience,  Manisty  moody  and  ill  at  ease. 

"Reggie  ! — well  met !"  It  was  Eleanor's  gay- 
est voice,  from  the  vine -leafed  shadows  of  the 
loggia.  Brooklyn  sat  down  beside  her,  gazing 
at  her  with  his  troubled  blue  eyes.  Manisty 
descended  to  the  walled  garden,  and  walked  up 
and  down  there  smoking,  a  prey  to  disagreeable 
thoughts. 

After  half  an  hour  or  so  Reggie  came  down  to 
the  convent  gate  to  look  out  for  the  rickety  dil- 
igence which  had  undertaken  to  bring  his  bag 
fron\  Orvieto. 

593 


Here  he  was  overtaken  by  Lucy  Foster,  who 
seemed  to  have  hurried  after  him. 

*'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Brooklyn  ?"  He  turned 
sharply,  and  let  her  see  a  countenance  singularly 
discomposed. 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  in  silence. 
He  noted  with  amazement  her  growth  in  beauty, 
in  expression.  But  the  sadness  of  the  mouth  and 
eyes  tortured  him  afresh. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?"  he  said  abrupt- 
ly, dropping  her  timidly  offered  hand. 

*' An  old  illness  —  mostly  the  heart,"  she  said, 
with  difficulty.  "  But  I  think  the  lungs  are 
wrong  too." 

"Why  did  she  come  here  —  why  did  you  let 
her?" 

The  roughness  of  his  tone,  the  burning  of  his 
eyes  made  her  draw  back. 

"  It  seemed  the  best  thing  to  do,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause.  "  Of  course,  it  was  only  done  because 
she  wished  it." 

"  Her  people  disapproved  strongly  !" 
"  She  would  not  consider  that." 
**  And  here  in  this  rough  place — in  this  heat — 
how  have  you  been  able  to  look  after  her  ?"  said 
the  young  man  passionately. 

"  We  have  done  what  we  could,"  said  the  girl 
humbly.  "  The  Contessa  Guerrini  has  been  very 
kind.  We  constantly  tried  to  persuade  her  to  let 
us  take  her  home  ;  but  she  couldn't  bring  herself 
to  move." 

■*  It  was  madness,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 
594 


"And  now — she  looks  as  though  she  were  going 
to  die  !" 

He  gave  a  groan  of  angry  grief.  Lucy  turned 
aside,  leaning  her  arm  against  the  convent  gate- 
way, and  her  face  upon  it.  The  attitude  was 
very  touching  ;  but  Brooklyn  only  stared  at  her 
in  a  blind  wrath.  "What  did  you  ever  come 
for  ?" — was  his  thought — "  making  mischief ! — and 
robbing  Eleanor  of  her  due  ! — It  was  a  bad  bar- 
gain she  wanted, — but  she  might  have  been  al- 
lowed to  have  him  in  peace.  What  did  you  come 
meddling  for?" 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  walled  garden 
opened.  Manisty  came  out  into  the  court-yard. 
Brooklyn  looked  from  him  to  Lucy  with  a  tight 
lip,  a  fierce  and  flashing  eye. 

He  watched  them  meet.  He  saw  Lucy's  quick 
change  of  attitude,  the  return  of  hardness  and 
composure.  Manisty  approached  her.  They  dis- 
cussed some  arrangement  for  the  journey,  in  the 
cold  tones  of  mere  acquaintance.  Not  a  sign  of 
intimacy  in  manner  or  words  ;  beyond  the  forced 
intimacy  of  those  who  have  for  the  moment  a 
common  task. 

When  the  short  dialogue  was  over,  Manisty 
mumbled  something  to  Brooklyn  to  the  effect 
that  Father  Benecke  had  some  dinner  for  him  at 
the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  But  he  did  not 
wait  for  the  young  man's  company.  He  hurried 
off  with  the  slouching  and  yet  swinging  gait 
characteristic  of  him,  his  shoulders  bent  as  it 
were  under  the  weight  of  his  great  head.  The 
595 


young  man  and  the  girl  looked  after  him.    Then 
Reggie  turned  impulsively. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  that  beastly  book — partly — 
that  knocked  her  up*.     What's  he  done  with  it  ?" 

"  He  has  given  it  up,  I  believe.  I  heard  him 
say  so  to  Eleanor." 

"  And  now  I  suppose  he  will  condescend  to  go 
back  to  politics  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Manisty's  affairs." 

The  young  man  threw  her  a  glance  first  of  dis- 
trust— then  of  something  milder  and  more  friend- 
ly. They  turned  back  to  the  convent  together, 
Lucy  answering  his  questions  as  to  the  place,  the 
people,  the  Contessa,  and  so  forth. 

A  step,  quick  and  gentle,  overtook  them. 

It  was  Father  Benecke,  who  stopped  and  greet- 
ed them  ;  a  venerable  figure,  as  he  bared  his  white 
head,  and  stood  for  a  moment  talking  to  Brooklyn 
under  the  great  sycamore  of  the  court-yard.  He 
had  now  resumed  his  clerical  dress  ;  not,  indeed, 
the  soutane ;  but  the  common  round  collar,  and 
long  black  coat  of  the  non- Catholic  countries. 
The  little  fact,  perhaps,  was  typical  of  a  general 
steadying  and  settling  of  his  fortunes  after  the 
anguish  of  his  great  catastrophe. 

Lucy  hardly  spoke  to  him.  His  manner  was  soft 
and  deprecating.  And  Miss  Foster  stood  apart  as 
though  she  liked  neither  it  nor  him.  When  he  left 
them,  to  enter  the  convent,  Reggie  broke  out : — 

•"  And  how  does  he  come  to  be  here^  I  declare 
it's  the  most  extraordinary  tangle  !  What's  he 
doing  in  there?" 

596 


He  nodded  towards  the  building,  whicli  seemed 
to  be  still  holding  the  sunlight  of  the  day,  so 
golden-white  it  shone  under  the  evening  sky,  and 
against  the  engirdling  forest. 

"  Every  night — almost — he  comes  to  read  with 
Eleanor." 

The  young  man  stared. 

"I  say — is  she — is  she  going  to  become  a 
Catholic  ?" 

Lucy  smiled. 

"You  forget  —  don't  you?  They've  excom- 
municated Father  Benecke." 

"My  word!  — Yes!  —  I  forgot.  My  chief  was 
awfully  excited  about  it.  Well,  I'm  sure  he's 
well  quit  of  them !" — said  the  young  man  fer- 
vently. "They're  doing  their  level  best  to  pull 
this  country  about  everybody's  ears.  And  they'll 
be  the  first  to  suffer — thank  Heaven  !— if  they  do 
upset  the  coach.  And  so  it  was  Benecke  that 
brought  Manisty  here?" 

Lucy's  movement  rebuked  him  ;  made  him  feel 
himself  an  impertinent. 

"  I  believe  so,"  she  said  coldly.  "  Good  -  night, 
Mr.  Brooklyn.  I  must  go  in.  There! — that's 
the  stage  coming  down  hill." 

He  went  to  tell  the  driver  to  set  down  his  bag 
at  the  house  by  the  bridge,  and  then  he  walked 
down  the  hill  after  the  little  rumbling  carriage, 
his  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  blue 
flannel  coat. 

"  She's  not  going  to  marry  him  I — I'll  bet  any- 
thing she's  not !  She's  a  girl  of  the  right  sort — 
597 


she's  a  brick,  she  is!" — he  said  to  himself  in  a 
miserable,  a  savage  exultation,  kicking  the  stones 
of  the  road  furiously  down  hill,  after  the  dis- 
appearing diligence.  "So  that's  how  a  woman 
looks  when  her  heart's  broken  ! — Oh  !  my  God — 
Eleanor ! — my  poor,  poor  Eleanor  !" 

And  before  he  knew  what  had  happened  to 
him,  the  young  fellow  found  himself  sitting  in 
the  darkness  by  the  road-side,  grappling  with 
honest  tears,  that  astonished  and  scandalized 
himself. 

Next  day  he  was  still  more  bewildered  by  the 
position  of  affairs.  Eleanor  was  apparently  so 
much  better  that  he  was  disposed  to  throw  scorn 
on  his  own  burst  of  grief  under  the  starlight. 
That  was  the  first  impression.  Then  she  was 
apparently  in  Manisty's  charge.  Manisty  sat 
with  her,  strolled  with  her,  read  to  her  from 
morning  till  night.  Never  had  their  relations 
been  more  intimate,  more  affectionate.  That 
was  the  second  impression. 

Nevertheless,  that  some  great  change  had  taken 
place — above  all  in  Eleanor — became  abundantly 
evident  to  the  young  man's  quickened  percep- 
tion, before  another  twenty-four  hours  had  passed 
away.  And  with  this  new  sense  returned  the 
sense  of  irreparable  tragedy.  Eleanor  stood 
alone — aloof  from  them  all.  The  more  unre- 
mitting, the  more  delicate  was  Manisty's  care, 
the  more  tender  was  Lucy's  devotion,  the  more 
plainly  was  Brooklyn  aware  of  a  pathetic,  a  mys- 
598 


terious  isolation  which  seemed  already  to  bring 
the  chill  of  death  into  their  little  company. 

The  boy's  pain  flowed  back  upon  him,  tenfold 
augmented.  For  seven  or  eight  years  he  had 
seen  in  Eleanor  Burgoyne  the  woman  of  ideal 
distinction  by  whom  he  judged  all  other  women. 
The  notion  of  falling  in  love  with  her  would  have 
seemed  to  him  ridiculous.  But  his  wife,  when- 
ever he  could  indulge  himself  in  such  a  luxury, 
must  be  like  her.  Meanwhile  he  was  most  naive- 
ly, most  boyishly  devoted  to  her. 

The  sight  of  her  now,  environed  as  it  were  by 
the  new  and  awful  possibilities  which  her  state 
suggested,  was  a  touch  upon  the  young  man's 
nature,  which  seemed  to  throw  all  its  energies 
into  a  fiery  fusion, — concentrating  them  upon  a 
changed  and  poignant  affection,  which  rapidly 
absorbed  his  whole  being.  His  pity  for  her  was 
almost  intolerable,  his  bitterness  towards  Manisty 
almost  beyond  his  control.  All  very  well  for 
him  now  to  be  the  guardian  of  her  decline! 
Whatever  might  be  the  truth  about  the  Ameri- 
can girl,  it  was  plain  enough  that  while  she  could 
still  reckon  on  the  hopes  and  chances  of  the  liv- 
ing, Eleanor  had  wasted  her  heart  and  powers 
on  an  egotist,  only  to  reap  ingratitude,  and  the 
deadly  fruit  of  "  benefits  forgot." 

What  chafed  him  most  was  that  he  had  so  lit- 
tle time  with  her  ;  that  Manisty  was  always  there. 
At  last,  two  days  after  his  arrival,  he  got  an  hour 
to  himself  while  Manisty  and  Father  Benecke 
were  walking,  and  Lucy  w  as  with  the  Contessa. 
599 


He  began  to  question  her  eagerly  as  to  the 
future.  With  whom  was  she  to  pass  the  re- 
mainder of  the  year — and  where  ? 

"With  my  father  and  Aunt  Pattie  of  course," 
said  Eleanor,  smiling.  "It  will  be  Scotland  I 
suppose  till  November— then  London." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  the  color 
flooding  his  smooth  fair  face.  Then  he  took  her 
hand  firmly,  and  with  words  and  gestures  that 
became  him  well,  he  solemnly  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  He  was  not  fit  to  tie  her  shoes;  but  he 
could  take  care  of  her ;  he  could  be  her  courier, 
her.  travelling  companion,  her  nurse,  her  slave. 
He  implored  her  to  listen  to  him.  What  was 
her  father  to  her?— he  asked  her  plainly — when 
had  he  ever  considered  her,  as  she  should  be  con- 
sidered? Let  her  only  trust  herself  to  him. 
Never,  never  should  she  repent  that  she  had 
done  him  such  an  inconceivable  honor.  Hang 
the  diplomatic  service !  He  had  some  money ; 
with  her  own  it  would  be  enough.  He  would 
take  her  to  Egypt  or  the  Cape.  That  would  re- 
vive her. 

Eleanor  heard  him  very  calmly. 

"You  dear,  dear  boy  !"  she  said,  when  he  paused 
for  lack  of  breath.  "You  remind  me  of  that 
pretty  story — don't  you  remember? — only  it  was 
the  other  way  about — of  Lord  Giffard  and  Lady 
Dufferin.  He  was  dying — and  she  married  him 
— that  she  might  be  with  him  to  the  end.  That's 
right — for  the  woman.  It's  her  natural  part  to 
be  the  nurse.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let 
600 


you  ruin  your  career  to  come  and  nurse  me? 
Oh  !  you  foolish  Reggie  !" 

But  he  implored  her;  and  after  a  while  she 
grew  restless. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  in  the  world  you  can 
do  for  me ! — "  she  said  at  last,  pushing  him  away 
from  her  in  her  agitation. 

Then  reaching  out  from  her  sofa,  she  opened 
a  drawer  in  a  little  table  beside  her,  and  took 
out  a  double  photograph  -  case,  folded  together. 
She  opened  it  and  held  it  out  to  him. 

"There! — help  me  bring  those  two  together, 
Reggie — and  I'll  give  you  even  more  of  my  heart 
than  I  do  now  !" 

He  stared,  open  -  mouthed  and  silent,  at  the 
portraits,  at  the  delicate,  illumined  face. 

"Come  here"  —  she  said,  drawing  him  back 
towards  her.     "  Come  and  let  us  talk." 

Meanwhile  Manisty  and  Father  Benecke  were 
climbing  the  long  hill,  on  the  return  from  their 
walk.  There  had  been  no  full  confidence  be- 
tween these  two.  Manisty's  pride  would  not 
allow  it.  There  was  too  sharp  humiliation  at 
present  in  the  thought  of  that  assurance  with 
which  he  had  spoken  to  Benecke  by  the  river- 
side. 

He  chose,  therefore,  when  they  were  alone, 
rather  to  talk  to  the  priest  of  his  own  affairs,  of 
his  probable  acceptance  of  the  Old  Catholic  offers 
which  had  been  made  him.  Benecke  did  not  re- 
sent the  perfunctory  manner  of  his  talk,  the  half- 
6oi 


tnind  that  he  gave  to  it.  The  priest's  shrewd 
humility  made  no  claims.  He  understood  per- 
fectly that  the  catastrophe  of  his  own  life  could 
have  no  vital  interest  for  a  man  absorbed  as 
Manisty  was  then  absorbed.  He  submitted  to 
its  being  made  a  topic,  a  passe-temps. 

Moreover,  he  forgave,  he  had  always  forgiven 
Manisty's  dominant  attitude  towards  the  forces 
which  had  trampled  on  himself.  Often  he  had 
felt  himself  the  shipwrecked  sailor  sinking  in 
the  waves,  while  Manisty  as  the  cool  spectator 
was  hobnobbing  with  the  wreckers  on  the  shore. 
But  nothing  of  this  affected  his  love  for  the 
man.  He  loved  him  as  Vanbrugh  Neal  had 
loved  him  ;  because  of  a  certain  charm,  a  cer- 
tain indestructible  youth  and  irresponsibility  at 
the  very  heart  of  him,  which  redeemed  half  his 
errors. 

"Ah  !  my  dear  friend,"  Manisty  was  saying  as 
they  neared  the  top  of  the  hill — with  his  largest 
and  easiest  gesture  ;  "  of  course  you  must  go  to 
Bonn  ;  you  must  do  what  they  want  you  to  do. 
The  Old  Catholics  will  make  a  great  deal  of  you. 
It  might  have  been  much  worse." 

"They  are  very  kind.  But  one  transplants 
badly  at  sixty-six,"  said  the  priest  mildly,  think- 
ing perhaps  of  his  little  home  in  the  street  of  his 
Bavarian  town,  of  the  pupils  he  should  see  no 
more,  of  the  old  sister  who  had  deserted  him. 

^^Your  book  has  been  the  success,"  said  Man- 
isty, impatiently.  "  For  you  said  what  you  meant 
to  say — you  hit  your  mark.  As  for  me — well, 
602 


never  mind  !  I  came  out  in  too  hot  a  temper ; 
the  men  I  saw  first  were  too  plausible  ;  the  facts 
have  been  too  many  for  me.  No  matter  !  It  was 
an  adventure  like  any  other.  I  don't  regret  it! 
In  itself,  it  gave  one  some  exciting  moments,  and, 
— if  I  mistook  the  battle  here — I  shall  still  fight 
the  English  battle  all  the  better  for  the  experi- 
ence !  Allons  done  ! — 'To-morrow  to  fresh  woods 
and  pastures  new!'  " 

The  priest  looked  at  his  handsome  reckless  air, 
with  a  mixture  of  indulgence  and  repulsion. 
Manisty  was  "an  honorable  man,"  of  many  gifts. 
If  certain  incalculable  elements  in  his  character 
could  be  controlled,  place  and  fame  were  proba- 
bly before  him.  Compared  with  him,  the  priest 
realized  profoundly  his  own  meaner,  obscurer 
destiny.  The  humble  servant  of  a  heavenly  pa- 
triae of  an  unfathomable  truth,  is  no  match  for 
these  intellectual  soldiers  of  fortune.  He  does 
not  judge  them  ;  he  often  feels  towards  them  a 
strange  forbearance.  But  he  would  sooner  die 
than  change  parts ! 

As  the  convent  came  in  sight,  Manisty  paused. 

**  You  are  going  in  to  see  her  ?" 

The  priest  assented. 

'*  Then  1  will  come  up  later." 

They  parted,  and  Father  Benecke  entered  the 
convent  alone. 

Five  days  more  !  Would  anything  happen — or 
nothing?  Manisty's  wounded  vanity  held  him 
at  arm's  -  length  ;  Miss  Foster  could  not  for- 
603 


give  him.  But  the  priest  knew  Eleanor's  heart; 
and  what  else  he  did  not  know  he  divined.  AU 
rested  with  the  American  girl,  with  the  wounded 
tenderness,  the  upright  independence  of  a  nature, 
which,  as  the  priest  frankly  confessed  to  himself, 
he  did  not  understand.  , 

He  was  not,  indeed,  without  pricks  of  con- 
science with  regard  to  her.  Supposing  that  she 
ultimately  yielded?  It  was  he  who  would  have 
precipitated  the  solution  ;  he  who  would  in  truth 
have  given  her  to  Manisty.  Might  he  not,  in  so 
doing,  have  succored  the  one  life  only  to  risk  the 
other?  Were  Manisty's  the  hands  in  which  to 
place  a  personality  so  noble  and  so  trusting  as 
that  of  the  young  girl  ? 

But  these  qualms  did  not  last  long.  As  we 
have  seen,  he  had  an  invincible  tenderness  for 
Manisty.  And  in  his  priestly  view  women  were 
the  adjuncts  and  helpers  of  men.  Woman  is 
born  to  trouble;  and  the  risks  that  she  must  take 
grow  with  her.  Why  fret  about  the  less  or  more  ? 
His  own  spiritual  courage  would  not  have  shrunk 
from  any  burden  that  love  might  lay  upon  it.  In 
his  Christian  stoicism  —  the  man  of  the  world 
might  have  called  it  a  Christian  insensibility — he 
answered  for  Lucy. 

Why  suppose  that  she  would  shrink,  or  ought 
to  shrink?  Eve's  burden  is  anyway  enormous; 
and  the  generous  heart  scorns  a  grudging  fore- 
sight. 

As  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne  —  ah  !  there  at  least  he 
might  be  sure  that  he  had  not  dared  in  vain. 
604 


While  Lucy  was  steel  to  him,  Eleanor  not  only 
forgave  him,  but  was  grateful  to  him  with  a 
frankness  that  only  natures  so  pliant  and  so  sweet 
have  the  gift  to  show.  In  a  few  hours,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  she  had  passed  from  fevered  an- 
guish into  a  state  which  held  him  often  spell 
bound  before  her,  so  consonant  was  it  to  the 
mystical  instincts  of  his  own  life.  He  thought  of 
her  with  the  tenderest  reverence,  the  most  sacred 
rejoicing.  Through  his  intercourse  with  her, 
moreover,  while  he  guided  and  sustained  her,  he 
had  been  fighting  his  own  way  back  to  the  sure 
ground  of  spiritual  hope  and  confidence.  God 
had  not  withdrawn  from  him  the  divine  message  ! 
He  was  about  to  step  forth  into  the  wilderness ; 
but  this  light  went  with  him. 

On  the  stairs  leading  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  rooms 
he  met  Reggie  Brooklyn  coming  down.  The 
young  man's  face  was  pale  and  strained.  The 
priest  asked  him  a  question,  but  he  ran  past  with- 
out an  answer. 

Eleanor  was  alone  on  the  loggia.  It  was  past 
eight  o'clock,  and  the  trees  in  the  court-yard  and 
along  the  road  were  alive  with  fire-flies.  Over- 
head was  the  clear  incomparable  sky,  faintly 
pricked  with  the  first  stars.  Some  one  was  sing- 
ing "  Santa  Lucia "  in  the  distance  ;  and  there 
was  the  twanging  of  a  guitar. 

"  Shall  I  go  away  ?"  he  said,  standing  beside 
her.  "You  wished  me  to  come.  But  you  are 
fatigued." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  languidly. 
605 


"  Don't  go,  Father.     But  let  me  rest  a  little." 

"  Pay  me  no  attention,"  he  said.  "  I  have  my 
office." 

He  took  out  his  breviary,  and  there  was  silence. 

After  a  while,  when  he  could  no  longer  see 
even  the  red  letters  of  his  little  book  and  was 
trusting  entirely  to  memory,  Eleanor  said,  with 
a  sudden  clearness  of  voice, — 

"A  strange  thing  happened  to  me  to-day, 
Father.  I  thought  I  would  tell  you.  For  many 
many  years  I  have  been  haunted  by  a  kind  of  re- 
current vision.  I  think  it  must  have  come,  to 
begin  with,  from  the  influence  of  a  clergyman — a 
very  stern,  imaginative,  exacting  man — who  pre- 
pared me  for  confirmation.  Suddenly  I  see  the 
procession  of  the  Cross ;  the  Lord  in  front,  with 
the  Crown  of  Thorns  dripping  with  blood;  the 
thieves  following;  the  crowd,  the  daughters  of 
Jerusalem.  Nothing  but  that — but  always  very 
vivid,  the  colors  as  bright  as  the  colors  of  a  Van 
Eyck  —  and  bringing  with  it  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  misery  and  anguish — of  everything  that 
one  wants  to  forget  and  refuse  in  life.  The  man  to 
whom  I  trace  it  was  a  saint,  but  a  forbidding  one. 
He  made  me  afraid  of  him  ;  afraid  of  Christiani- 
ty. I  believed,  but  I  never  loved.  And  when  his 
influence  was  withdrawn,  I  threw  it  all  behind 
me,  in  a  great  hurry.  But  this  impression  re- 
mained— like  a  nightmare.  I  remember  the  day 
I  was  presented ;  there,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
feathers  and  veils  and  coronets,  was  the  vision,^ — 
and  the  tumult  of  ghastly  and  crushing  thoughts 


that  spread  from  it.  I  remember  hating  Christi- 
anity that  day  ;  and  its  influence  in  the  world. 

"  Last  night,  just  before  the  dawn,  I  looked 
out;  and  there  was  the  vision  again,  sweeping  over 
the  forests,  and  up  into  the  clouds  that  hung  over 
Monte  Amiata.  And  I  hated  it  no  more.  There 
was  no  accompanying  horror.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  natural  as  the  woods  ;  as  the  just  -  kindling 
light.  And  my  own  soul  seemed  to  be  rapt  into 
the  procession — the  dim  and  endless  procession 
of  all  times  and  nations — and  to  pass  away  with 
it, — I  knew  not  where.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  fell  softly,  to  a  note  of  dream. 

"  That  was  an  omen,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
"an  omen  of  peace." 

"  I  don't  know, — but  it  soothed  !  As  to  what 
may  be  true^  Father, — you  can't  be  certain  any 
more  than  I !  But  at  least  our  dreams  are  true 
T— to  us^  ..."  We  make  the  heaven  we  hope  in- 
deed our  home  !  All  to  the  good  if  we  wake  up 
in  it  after  all !  If  not,  the  dream  will  have  had 
its  own  use  here.  Why  should  we  fight  so  with 
our  ignorance  ?  The  point  is,  as  to  the  quality  of 
our  dreams  !  The  quality  of  mine  was  once  all 
dark — all  misery.  Now,  there  is  a  change, — like 
the  change  from  London  drizzle  and  rain  to  the 
clearness  of  this  sky,  which  gives  beauty  to  ev- 
erything beneath  it.  But,  for  me,  it  is  not  the 
first  time — no,  not  the  first " 

The  words  were  no  longer  audible,  her  hands 
pressed  against  each  other,  and  he  traced  that 
sudden  rigidity  in  her  dim  face  which  meant 
607 


that  she  was  defending  herself  against  emo- 
tion. 

"It  is  all  true,  my  friend,"  he  said,  bending 
over  her, — "  the  gospel  of  Christ.  You  would  be 
happier  if  you  could  accept  it  simply." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  smiling,  but  she  did  not 
reply.  She  was  always  eager  that  he  should  read 
and  talk  to  her,  and  she  rarely  argued.  But  he 
never  felt  that  intellectually  he  had  much  hold 
upon  her.  Her  mind  seemed  to  him  to  be  moving 
elusively  in  a  sphere  remote  and  characteristic, 
where  he  could  seldom  follow.  Anima  naturali- 
ter  Christiana ;  yet  with  a  most  stoic  readiness 
to  face  the  great  uncertainties,  the  least  flatter- 
ing possibilities  of  existence  :  so  she  often  ap- 
peared to  him. 

Presently  she  dragged  herself  higher  in  her 
chair  to  look  at  the  moon  rising  above  the  east- 
ern mass  of  the  convent. 

"  It  all  gives  me  such  extraordinary  pleasure!" 
she  said,  as  though  in  wonder — "  The  moon — the 
fire-flies — those  beautiful  woods — your  kindness 
— Lucy  in  her  white  dress,  when  I  see  her  there 
at  the  door.  I  know  how  short  it  must  be  ;  and 
a  few  weeks  ago  I  enjoyed  nothing.  What  mys- 
tery are  we  part  of? — that  moves  and  changes 
without  our  will.  I  was  much  touched.  Father, 
by  all  you  said  to  me  that  great,  great  day;  but 
I  was  not  conscious  of  yielding  to  you;  nor  after- 
wards. Then,  one  night,  I  went  to  sleep  in  one 
mind;  I  woke  up  in  another.  The  '  grace  of  God,' 
you  think? — or  the  natural  welling  back  of  the 
608 


river,  little  by  little,  to  its  natural  bed?  After 
all  I  never  wilfully  hurt  or  defied  anybody  before 
that  I  can  remember.  But  what  are  *  grace '  and 
'nature'  more  than  words?  There  is  a  Life, — 
which  our  life  perpetually  touches  and  guesses 
at — like  a  child  fingering  a  closed  room  in  the 
dark.     What  else  do  we  know  ?" 

"  We  know  a  great  deal  more,"  he  said  firmly. 
"  But  I  don't  want  to  weary  you  by  talking." 

"  You  don't  weary  me.  Ah  !" — her  voice  leaped 
— "  what  is  true — is  the  *  dying  to  live  '  of  Chris- 
tianity. One  moment,  you  have  the  weight  of 
the  world  upon  you  ;  the  next,  as  it  were,  you 
dispose  of  the  world  and  all  in  it.  Just  an  act  of 
the  will ! — and  the  thing  verifies  itself  like  any 
chemical  experiment.  Let  me  go  on — go  on  !" 
she  said,  with  mystical  intensity.  "  If  the  clew 
is  anywhere  it  is  there,— so  far  my  mind  goes 
with  you.  Other  races  perceive  it  through  other 
forms.     But  Christ  offered  it  to  us." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  priest  tenderly — 
"  He  offers  us  Himself'' 

She  smiled,  most  brightly. 

"  Don't  quarrel  with  me — with  my  poor  words. 
He  is  there — there !'' — she  said  under  her  breath. 

And  he  saw  the  motion  of  her  white  fingers 
towards  her  breast. 

Afterwards  he  sat  beside  her  for  some  time  in 
silence,  thinking  of  the  great  world  of  Rome,  and 
of  his  long  conflict  there. 

Form  after  form  appeared  to  him  of  those  men, 
stupid  or  acute,  holy  or  wordly,  learned  or  igno- 
609 


rant,  who  at  the  heart  of  CathoHcism  are  engaged 
in  that  amazing  struggle  with  knowledge,  which 
perhaps  represents  the  only  condition  under 
which  knowledge  —  the  awful  and  irresistible — ■ 
can  in  the  long  run  safely  incorporate  itself  with 
the  dense  mass  of  human  life.  He  thought  of 
scholar  after  scholar  crushed  by  the  most  incom- 
petent of  judges  ;  this  man  silenced  by  a  great 
post,  that  man  by  exile,  one  through  the  best  of 
his  nature,  another  through  the  worst.  He  saw 
himself  sitting  side  by  side  with  one  of  the  most 
eminent  theologians  of  the  Roman  Church  ;  he 
recalled  the  little  man,  black-haired,  lively,  cor- 
pulent, a  trifle  underhung,  with  a  pleasant  lisp 
and  a  merry  eye  ;  he  remembered  the  incredible 
conversation,  the  sense  of  difficulty  and  shame 
under  which  he  had  argued  some  of  the  common- 
places of  biology  and  primitive  history,  as  edu- 
cated Europe  understands  them;  the  half-patron- 
izing, half-impatient  glibness  of  the  other. — 

"  Oh !  you  know  better,  my  son,  than  I,  how  to 
argue  these  things  ;  you  are  more  learned,  of 
course.  But  it  is  only  a  matter  for  the  Catechism 
after  all.  Obey,  my  friend,  obey  !  —  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said." 

And  his  own  voice — tremulous  : 

"  I  would  obey  if  I  could.  But  unhappy  as  I 
am,  to  betray  truths  that  are  as  evident  to  me  as 
the  sun  in  heaven  would  make  me  still  unhap- 
pier.  The  fate  that  threatens  me  is  frightful. 
Aber  ich  kann  nicht  under s.  The  truth  holds  me 
in  ^  vise."— 


*'  Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  counsel.  You  sit 
too  close  to  your  books.  You  read  and  read, — 
you  spin  yourself  into  your  own  views  like  a  co- 
coon. Travel — hear  what  others  say — above  all, 
go  into  retreat !  No  one  need  know.  It  would 
do  you  much  good." 

"  Eminence,  I  don't  only  study ;  I  pray  and 
meditate;  I  take  pains  to  hear  all  that  my  oppo- 
nents say.     But  my  heart  stands  firm." 

"  My  son,  the  tribunal  of  the  Pope  is  the  tri- 
bunal of  Christ.  You  are  judged  ;  submit !  If 
not,  I  am  sorry — I  regret  deeply — but  the  conse- 
quence is  certain." 

And  then  his  own  voice,  in  its  last  wrestle — 

"  The  penalty  that  approaches  me  appears  to 
me  more  terrible  the  nearer  it  comes.  Like  the 
Preacher — '  I  have  judged  him  happiest  who  is 
not  yet  born,  nor  doth  he  see  the  ills  that  are 
done  under  the  sun.'  Eminence,  give  me  yet  a 
little  time." 

"  A  fortnight — gladly.  But  that  is  the  utmost 
limit.  My  son,  make  the  '  sacrificium  intellec-, 
tus !' — and  make  it  willingly." 

Ah! — and  then  the  yielding,  and  the  treachery, 
and  the  last  blind  stroke  for  truth! — 

What  was  it  which  had  undone  him — which 
was  now  strangling  the  mental  and  moral  life  of 
half  Christendom? 

Was  it  the  certainty  of  the  Roman  Church ; 
that  conception  of  life  which  stakes  the  all  of 
life  upon  the  carnal  and  outward ;  upon  a  date, 
an  authorship,  a  miracle,  an  event  ? 
6u 


Perhaps  his  own  certainty,  at  bottom,  had  not 
been  so  very  different. 

But  here,  beneath  his  eyes,  in  this  dying  wom- 
an, was  another  certainty;  erect  amid  all  confu- 
sion ;  a  certainty  of  the  spirit. 

And  looking  along  the  future,  he  saw  the  battle 
of  the  certainties,  traditional,  scientific,  moral, 
ever  more  defined  ;  and  believed,  like  all  the  rest 
of  us,  in  that  particular  victory,  for  which  he 
hoped  ! 

Late  that  night,  when  all  their  visitors  were 
gone,  Eleanor  showed  unusual  animation.  She 
left  her  sofa  ;  she  walked  up  and  down  their  little 
sitting-room,  giving  directions  to  Marie  about 
the  journey  home  ;  and  at  last  she  informed  them 
with  a  gayety  that  made  mock  of  their  opposition 
that  she  had  made  all  arrangements  to  start  very 
early  the  following  morning  to  visit  the  doctor 
in  Orvieto  who  had  attended  her  in  June.  Lucy 
protested  and  implored,  but  soon  found  that 
everything  was  settled,  and  Eleanor  was  deter- 
mined. She  was  to  go  alone  with  Marie,  in  the 
Contessa's  carriage,  starting  almost  with  the 
dawn  so  as  to  avoid  the  heat :  to  spend  the  hot 
noon  under  shelter  at  Orvieto  ;  and  to  return  in 
the  evening.  Lucy  pressed  at  least  to  go  with 
her.  So  it  appeared  had  the  Contessa.  But  Elea- 
nor would  have  neither.  "I  drive  most  days, and 
it  does  me  no  harm,"  she  said,  almost  with  tem- 
per.    "  Do  let  me  alone  !'* 

When  she  returned,  Manisty  was  lounging  un- 
612 


der  the  trees  of  the  court-yard  waiting  for  her. 
He  had  spent  a  dull  and  purposeless  da}^,  which 
for  a  man  of  his  character  and  in  his  predica- 
ment had  been  hard  to  bear.  His  patience  was 
ebbing ;  his  disappointment  and  despair  were 
fast  getting  beyond  control.  All  this  Eleanor 
saw  in  his  face  as  she  dismounted. 

Lucy,  who  had  been  watching  for  her  all  the 
afternoon,  was  at  the  moment  for  some  reason 
or  other  with  Reggie  in  the  village. 

Eleanor,  with  her  hand  on  Marie's  arm,  tottered 
across  the  court -yard.  At  the  convent  door  her 
strength  failed  her.     She  turned  to  Manisty. 

"  I  can't  walk  up  these  stairs.  Do  you  think 
you  could  carry  me  ?     I  am  very  light." 

Struck  with  sudden  emotion  he  threw  his  arms 
round  her.  She  yielded  like  a  tired  child.  He, 
who  had  instinctively  prepared  himself  for  a  cer- 
tain weight,  was  aghast  at  the  ease  with  which 
he  lifted  her.  Her  head,  in  its  pretty  black  hat, 
fell  against  his  breast.  Her  eyes  closed.  He 
wondered  if  she  had  fainted. 

He  carried  her  to  her  room,  and  laid  her  on  the 
sofa  there.  Then  he  saw  that  she  had  not  faint- 
ed, and  that  her  eyes  followed  him.  As  he  was 
about  to  leave  her  to  Marie,  who  was  moving 
about  in  Lucy's  room  next  door,  she  touched 
him  on  the  arm. 

"  You  may  speak  again — to-morrow,"  she  said, 
nodding  at  him  with  a  friendly  smile. 

His  face  in  its  sudden  flash  of  animation  reflect- 
ed the  permission.  He  pressed  her  hand  tenderly. 
613 


*'  Was  your  doctor  useful  to  you  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  it  is  hard  to  think  as  much  of  a  pre- 
scription in  Italian  as  in  English — but  that's  one's 
insular  way." 

"He  thought  you  no  worse?" 

"Why  should  one  believe  him  if  he  did?"  she 
said  evasively.  "  No  one  knows  as  much  as  one'5 
self.  Ah  !  there  is  Lucy.  I  think  you  must  bid 
us  good-night.     I  am  too  tired  for  talking." 

As  he  left  the  room  Eleanor  settled  down  hap- 
pily on  her  pillow. 

"  The  first  and  only  time  !"  she  thought.  "  My 
heart  on  his — my  arms  round  his  neck.  There 
must  be  impressions  that  outlast  all  others.  I 
shall  manage  to  put  them  all  away  at  the  end — 
but  that." 

When  Lucy  came  in,  she  declared  she  was  not 
very  much  exhausted.  As  to  the  doctor  she  was 
silent. 

But  that  night,  when  Lucy  had  been  for  some 
time  in  bed,  and  was  still  sleepless  with  anxiety 
and  sorrow,  the  door  opened  and  Eleanor  ap- 
peared. She  was  in  her  usual  white  wrapper, 
and  her  fair  hair,  now  much  touched  with  gray, 
was  loose  on  her  shoulders. 

"  Oh  !  can  I  do  anything?"  cried  Lucy,  starting 
up. 

Eleanor  came  up  to  her,  laid  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  bade  her  "  be  still,"  and  brought  a  chair 
for  herself.  She  had  put  down  her  candle  on  a 
table  which  stood  near,  and  Lucy  could  see  the 
sombre  agitation  of  her  face. 
614 


"  How  long  ?'*  she  said,  bending  over  the  girl--^ 
"how  long  are  you  going  to  break  my  heart  and 
his?" 

The  words  were  spoken  with  a  violence  which 
convulsed  her  whole  frail  form.  Lucy  sprang  up, 
and  tried  to  throw  her  arms  round  her.  But 
Eleanor  shook  her  off.  '^ 

"  No — no  !  Let  us  have  it  out.  Do  you  see  ?" 
She  let  the  wrapper  slip  from  her  shoulders.  She 
showed  the  dark  hollows  under  the  wasted  collar- 
bones, the  knifelike  shoulders,  the  absolute  dis- 
appearance of  all  that  had  once  made  the  differ- 
ence between  grace  and  emaciation.  She  held 
up  her  hands  before  the  girl's  terrified  eyes.  The 
skin  was  still  white  and  delicate,  otherwise  they 
were  the  hands  of  a  skeleton. 

"  You  can  look  at  that,''  she  said  fiercely  under 
her  breath — "  and  then  insult  me  by  refusing  to 
marry  the  man  you  love,  because  you  choose  to 
remember  that  I  was  once  in  love  with  him  !  It 
is  an  outrage  to  associate  such  thoughts  with  me 
— ^as  though  one  should  make  a  rival  of  some  one 
in  her  shroud.  It  hurts  and  tortures  me  every 
hour  to  know  that  you  have  such  notions  in  your 
mind.  It  holds  me  back  from  peace — it  chains 
me  down  to  the  fiesh,  and  to  earth." 

"  Eleanor  !"  cried  the  girl  in  entreaty,  catching 
at  her  hands.     But  Eleanor  stood  firm. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  peremptorily — "  answer  me 

truly,  as  one  must  answer  people  in  my  state — 

you  do  love  him?    If  I  had  not  been  here — if  I 

had  not  stood  in  your  way — you  would  have  al- 

615 


lowed  him  his  chance — you  would  have  married 
him?" 

Lucy  bent  her  head  upon  her  knees,  forcing 
herself  to  composure. 

"  How  can  I  answer  that  ?  I  can  never  think 
of  him,  except  as  having  brought  pain  to  you." 

"Yes,  dear,  you  can,"  cried  Eleanor,  throwing 
herself  on  her  knees,  and  folding  the  girl  in  her 
arms.  "  You  can  !  It  is  no  fault  of  his  that  I  am 
like  this — none — none  !  The  doctor  told  me  this 
afternoon  that  the  respite  last  year  was  only  ap- 
parent. The  mischief  has  always  been  there — the 
end  quite  certain.  All  my  dreams  and  disappoint- 
ments and  foolish  woman's  notions  have  vanished 
from  me  like  smoke.  There  isn't  one  of  them  left. 
What  should  a  woman  in  my  condition  do  with 
such  things  ?  But  what  is  left  is  love — for  you  and 
him.  Oh !  not  the  old  love,"  she  said  impatiently — 
persuading,  haranguing  herself  no  less  than  Lucy 
— "  not  an  ounce  of  it !  But  a  love  that  suffers  so 
— in  his  suffering  and  yours  !  A  love  that  won't 
let  me  rest ;  that  is  killing  me  before  the  time !" 

She  began  to  walk  wildly  up  and  down.  Lucy 
sprang  up,  threw  on  some  clothes,  and  gradually 
persuaded  her  to  go  back  to  her  own  room.  When 
she  was  in  bed  again,  utterly  exhausted,  Lucy's 
face — bathed  in  tears — approached  hers  : 

"  Tell  me  what  to  do.  Have  I  ever  refused  you 
anything  ?" 

The  morning  broke  pure  and  radiant  over  the 
village  and  the  forest.    The  great  slopes  of  wood 
6i6 


were  in  a  deep  and  misty  shadow  ;  the  river, 
shrunk  to  a  thread  again,  scarcely  chattered  with 
its  stones.  A  fresh  wind  wandered  through  the 
trees  and  over  the  new-reaped  fields. 

The  Angelus  had  been  rung  long  ago.  There 
was  the  bell  beginning  for  mass.  Lucy  slipped 
out  into  a  cool  world,  already  alive  with  all 
the  primal  labors.  The  children  and  the  moth- 
ers and  the  dogs  were  up ;  the  peasants  among 
the  vines ;  the  men  with  their  peaked  hats,  the 
women  shrouded  from  the  sun  under  the  heavy 
folds  of  their  cotton  head  -  gear ;  turned  and 
smiled  as  she  passed  by.  They  liked  the  Sig- 
norina,  and  they  were  accustomed  to  her  early 
walks. 

On  the  hill  she  met  Father  Benecke  coming  up 
to  mass.  Her  cheek  reddened,  and  she  stopped 
to  speak  to  him. 

"You  are  out  early,  mademoiselle?" 

"  It  is  the  only  time  to  walk." 

"  Ah  !  yes — you  are  right." 

At  which  a  sudden  thought  made  the  priest 
start.  He  looked  down.  But  this  time,  he  at 
least  was  innocent ! 

"  You  are  coming  in  to  tea  with  us  this  after- 
noon. Father  ?" 

"  If  mademoiselle  does  me  the  honor  to  invite 
me." 

The  girl  laughed. 

"We  shall  expect  you." 

Then  she  gave  him  her  hand — a  shy  yet  kind 
look  from  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  went  her  way. 
X  617 


She  had  forgiven  him,  and  the  priest  walked  on 
with  a  cheered  mind. 

Meanwhile  Lucy  pushed  her  way  into  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  Sassetto.  In  its  very  heart  she 
found  a  green  overgrown  spot  where  the  rocks 
made  a  sort  of  natural  chair  ;  one  great  block 
leaning  forward  overhead ;  a  flat  seat,  and  mossy 
arms  on  either  side. 

Here  she  seated  herself.  The  winding  path  ran 
above  her  head.  She  could  be  perceived  from  it, 
but  at  this  hour  what  fear  of  passers  by  ? 

She  gave  herself  up  to  the  rush  of  memory  and 
fear. 

She  had  travelled  far  in  these  four  months ! 

"  Is  this  what  it  always  means  ? — coming  to 
Europe  ?"  she  asked  herself  with  a  laugh  that 
was  not  gay,  while  her  fingers  pulled  at  a  tuft  of 
hart's-tongue  that  grew  in  a  crevice  beside  her. 

And  then  in  a  flash  she  looked  on  into  her 
destiny.  She  thought  of  Manisty  with  a  yearn- 
ing, passionate  heart,  and  yet  with  a  kind  of 
terror ;  of  the  rich,  incalculable,  undisciplined 
nature,  with  all  its  capricious  and  self  -  willed 
power,  its  fastidious  demands,  its  practical  weak- 
ness ;  the  man's  brilliance  and  his  folly.  She 
envisaged  herself  laden  with  the  responsibility 
of  being  his  wife;  and  it  seemed  to  her  beyond 
her  strength.  One  moment  he  appeared  to  her 
so  much  above  and  beyond  her  that  it  was  ri- 
diculous he  should  stoop  to  her.  The  next  she 
felt,  as  it  were,  the  weight  of  his  life  upon  her 
hands,  and  told  herself  that  she  could  not  bear  it. 
6i8 


And  then — and  then — it  was  all  very  well,  but 
if  she  had  not  come — if  Eleanor  had  never  seen 
her 

Her  head  fell  back  into  a  mossy  corner  of  the 
rock.  Her  eyes  were  blind  with  tears.  From  the 
hill  came  the  rumble  of  an  ox  -  wagon  with  the 
shouts  of  the  drivers. 

But  another  sound  was  nearer  ;  the  sound  of  a 
man's  step  upon  the  path.  An  exclamation — a 
leap — and  before  she  could  replace  the  hat  she 
had  taken  off,  or  hide  the  traces  of  her  tears, 
Manisty  was  beside  her. 

She  sat  up,  staring  at  him  in  a  bewildered  si- 
lence. He  too  was  silent, — only  she  saw  the  la- 
boring of  his  breath. 

But  at  last — 

"  I  will  not  force  myself  upon  you,**  he  said,  in 
a  voice  haughty  and  self-restrained,  that  barely 
reached  her  ears.  "  I  will  go  at  once  if  you  bid 
me  go." 

Then,  as  she  still  said  nothing,  he  came  nearer. 

"  You  don't  send  me  away  ?" 

She  made  a  little  despairing  gesture  that  said, 
"  I  can't !" — but  so  sadly,  that  it  did  nol  encour- 
age him. 

"Lucy  !" — he  said,  trembling — "are  you  going 
to  take  the  seal  off  my  lips — to  give  me  my  chance 
at  last  ?" 

To  that,  only  the  answer  of  her  eyes, — so  sweet, 
so  full  of  sorrow. 

He  stooped  above  her,  his  whole  nature  torn 
between  love  and  doubt. 
619 


"  You  hear  me,"  he  said,  in  low,  broken  tones— 
"  but  you  think  yourself  a  traitor  to  listen?" 

"  And  how  could  I  not  ?"  she  cried,  with  a  sud- 
den sob.  And  then  she  found  her  speech  ;  her 
heart  unveiled  itself. 

"  If  I  had  never,  never  come ! — It  is  my  fault 
that  she  is  dying — only,  only  my  fault!" 

And  she  turned  away  from  him  to  hide  her  face 
and  eyes  against  the  rock,  in  such  an  agony  of 
feeling  that  he  almost  despaired. 

He  controlled  himself  sharply,  putting  aside 
passion,  collecting  his  thoughts  for  dear  life. 

''  You  are  the  most  innocent,  the  most  true  of 
tender  friends.  It  is  in  her  name  that  I  say  to 
you — Lucy,  be  kind  !   Lucy,  dare  to  love  me  !" 

She  raised  her  arm  suddenly  and  pointed  to  the 
ground  between  them. 

"There!" — she  said  under  her  breath,"!  see 
her  there  ! — lying  dead  between  us  !" 

He  was  struck  with  horror,  realizing  in  what  a 
grip  this  sane  and  simple  nature  must  feel  itself 
before  it  could  break  into  such  expression.  What 
could  he  do  or  say  ? 

He  seated  himself  beside  her,  he  took  her  hands 
by  force. 

"  Lucy,  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  won't  pre- 
tend that  I  don't  know.  You  think  that  I  ought 
to  have  married  my  cousin — that  if  you  had  not 
been  there,  I  should  have  married  her.  I  might, 
— not  yet,  but  after  some  time, — it  is  quite  true 
that  it  might  have  happened.  Would  it  have 
made  Eleanor  happy  ?  You  saw  me  at  the  villa-^ 
620 


as  I  am.  You  know  well,  that  even  as  a  friend, 
I  constantly  disappointed  her.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  fate  upon  us  which  made  me  torment 
and  wound  her  when  I  least  intended  it.  I 
don't  defend  myself, — and  Heaven  knows  I  don't 
blame  Eleanor  !  I  have  always  believed  that 
these  things  are  mysterious,  predestined — mat- 
ters of  temperament  deeper  than  our  will.  I 
was  deeply,  sincerely  attached  to  Eleanor — yet ! 

—  when  you  came  —  after  those  first  few  weeks 

—  the  falsity  of  the  whole  position  flashed  upon 
me.  And  there  was  the  book.  It  seemed  to 
me  sometimes  that  the  only  way  of  extricating 
us  all  was  to  destroy  the  book,  and — and  —  all 
that  it  implied — or  might  have  been  thought 
to  imply,  — "  he  added  hurriedly.  "Oh!  you 
needn't  tell  me  that  I  was  a  blundering  and  self- 
ish fool !  We  have  all  got  into  a  horrible  coil — 
and  I  can't  pose  before  you  if  I  would.  But  it 
isn't  Eleanor  that  would  hold  you  back  from  me, 
Lucy — it  isn't  Eleanor  ! — answer  me  ! — you  know 
that  ?" 

He  held  her  almost  roughly,  scanning  her  face 
in  an  agony  that  served  him  well. 

Her  lips  moved  piteously,  in  words  that  he 
could  not  hear.  But  her  hands  lay  passive  in  his 
grasp  ;  and  he  hastened  on. 

"  Ever  since  that  Nemi  evening,  Lucy,  I  have 
been  a  new  creature.  I  will  tell  you  no  lies.  I 
won't  say  that  I  never  loved  any  woman  before 
you.  I  will  have  no  secrets  from  you — you  shall 
know  all,  if  you  want  to  know.  But  I  do  say  that 
621 


every  passion  I  ever  knew  in  my  first  youth  seems 
to  me  now  a  mere  apprenticeship  to  loving  you  ! 
You  have  become  my  life — my  very  heart.  If 
anything  is  to  be  made  of  a  fellow  like  me — it's 
you  that'll  give  me  a  chance,  Lucy.  Oh!  my 
dear — don't  turn  from  me  !  It's  Eleanor's  voice 
speaks  in  mine — listen  to  us  both  !" 

Her  color  came  and  went.  She  swayed  tow- 
ards him,  fascinated  by  his  voice,  conquered  by 
the  mere  exhaustion  of  her  long  struggle,  held 
in  the  grasp  of  that  compulsion  which  Eleanor 
had  laid  upon  her. 

Manisty  perceived  her  weakness ;  his  eyes 
flamed  ;  his  arm  closed  round  her. 

"  I  had  an  instinct — a  vision,"  he  said,  almost 
in  her  ear,  "when  I  set  out.  The  day  dawned 
on  me  like  a  day  of  consecration.  The  sun  was 
another  sun — the  earth  reborn.  I  took  up  my 
pilgrimage  again — looking  for  Lucy — as  I  have 
looked  for  her  the  last  six  weeks.  And  every- 
thing led  me  right — the  breeze  and  the  woods 
and  the  birds.  They  were  all  in  league  with  me. 
They    pitied   me  —  they    told    me   where    Lucy 

was " 

The  low,  rtishing  words  ceased  a  moment. 
Manisty  looked  at  her,  took  both  her  hands 
again. 

"  But  they  couldn't  tell  me  " — he  murmured — 
"how  to  please  her — how  to  make  her  kind  to 
me — make  her  listen  to  me.  Lucy,  whom  shall 
I  go  to  for  that  ?" 

She  turned  away  her  face ;  her  hands  released 
622 


themselves.  Manisty  hardly  breathed  till  she 
said,  with  a  trembling  mouth,  and  a  little  sob 
now  and  then  between  the  words — 

"  It  is  all  so  strange  to  me — so  strange  and  so 
— so  doubtful !  If  there  were  only  some  one  here 
from  my  own  people, — some  one  who  could  ad- 
vise me !  Is  it  wise  for  you — for  us  both  ?  You 
know  I'm  so  different  from  you — and  you'll  find 
it  out  perhaps,  more  and  more.  And  if  you  did 
— and  were  discontented  with  me  —  I  can't  be 
sure  that  I  could  always  fit  myself  to  you.  I 
was  brought  up  so  that — that — I  can't  always  be 
as  easy  and  pleasant  as  other  girls.  My  mother 
— she  stood  by  herself  often  —  and  I  with  her. 
She  was  a  grand  nature — but  I'm  sure  you  would 
have  thought  her  extravagant  —  and  perhaps 
hard.  And  often  I  feel  as  though  I  didn't  know 
myself,  —  what  there  might  be  in  me.  I  know 
I'm  often  very  stubborn.  Suppose  —  in  a  few 
years " 

Her  eyes  came  back  to  him ;  searching  and 
interrogating  that  bent  look  of  his,  in  which  her 
whole  being  seemed  held. 

What  was  it  Manisty  saw  in  her  troubled  face 
that  she  could  no  longer  conceal?  He  made  no 
attempt  to  answer  her  words  ;  there  was  another 
language  between  them.  He  gave  a  cry.  He 
put  forth  a  tender  violence;  and  Lucy  yielded. 
She  found  herself  in  his  arms ;  and  all  was  said. 

Yet  when  she  withdrew  herself,  she  was  in 
tears.  She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it  wildly, 
hardly  knowing  what  she  was  doing.  But  her 
623 


heart  turned  to  Eleanor ;  and  it  was  Eleanor's 
voice  in  her  ears  that  alone  commanded  and  ab- 
solved her. 

As  they  strolled  home,  Manisty's  mood  was  of 
the  wildest  and  gayest.  He  would  hear  of  no 
despair  about  his  cousin. 

"  We  will  take  her  home — you  and  I.  We  will 
get  the  very  best  advice.  It  isn't — it  sha'n't  be 
as  bad  as  you  think !" 

And  out  of  mere  reaction  from  her  weeks  of 
anguish,  she  believed  him,  she  hoped  again.  Then 
he  turned  to  speculate  on  the  voyage  to  America 
he  must  now  make,  on  his  first  interviews  with 
Grayridge  and  Uncle  Ben. 

"  Shall  I  make  a  good  impression  ?  How  shall 
I  be  received?  I  am  certain  you  gave  your  uncle 
the  worst  accounts  of  me." 

"I  guess  Uncle  Ben  will  judge  for  himself," 
she  said,  reddening  ;  thankful  all  the  same  to  re- 
member that  among  her  uncle's  reticent,  old- 
fashioned  ways  none  was  more  marked  than  his 
habit  of  destroying  all  but  an  infinitesimal  frac- 
tion of  his  letters.  "  He  read  all  those  speeches 
of  yours,  last  year.  You'll  have  to  think — how 
you're  going  to  get  over  it." 

*'  Well,  you  have  brought  me  on  my  knees  to 
Italy,"  he  said,  laughing.  *'  Must  I  now  go  bare- 
foot to  the  tomb  of  Washington?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  little  smile,  that 
showed  him  once  more  the  Lucy  of  the  villa. 

"You  do  seem  to  make  mistakes,  don't  you?" 
624 


she  said  gently.  But  then  her  hand  nestled  shy- 
ly into  his ;  and  without  words,  her  heart  vowed 
the  true  woman's  vow  to  love  him  and  stand  by 
him  always,  for  better  for  worse,  through  error 
and  success,  through  fame  or  failure.  In  truth 
her  inexperience  had  analyzed  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  pledged  herself  far  better  than  he  im- 
agined. Did  her  love  for  him  indeed  rest  partly 
on  a  secret  sense  of  vocation? — a  profound,  in- 
articulate divining  of  his  vast,  his  illimitable 
need  for  such  a  one  as  she  to  love  him? 

Meanwhile  Eleanor  and  Reggie  and  Father 
Benecke  waited  breakfast  on  the  loggia.  They 
were  all  under  the  spell  of  a  common  excite- 
ment, a  common  restlessness. 

Eleanor  had  discarded  her  sofa.  She  moved 
about  the  loggia.,  now  looking  down  the  road,  now 
gathering  a  bunch  of  rose-pink  oleanders  for  her 
white  dress.  The  frou-frou  of  her  soft  skirts ; 
her  happy  agitation ;  the  flush  on  her  cheek ; — 
neither  of  the  men  who  were  her  companions 
ever  forgot  them  afterwards. 

Manisty,  it  appeared,  had  taken  coffee  with 
Father  Benecke  at  six,  and  had  then  strolled  up 
the  Sassetto  path  with  his  cigarette.  Lucy  had 
been  out  since  the  first  church  bells.  Father 
Benecke  reported  his  meeting  with  her  on  the 
road. 

Eleanor  listened  to  him  with  a  sort  of  gay 
self-restraint. 

"Yes — I  know" — she  said,  nodding — "I  know. 
625 


— Reggie,  there  is  a  glorious  tuft  of  carnations 
in  that  pot  in  the  cloisters.  Ask  Mamma  Doni 
if  we  may  have  them.  Ecco — take  her  a  lira  for 
the  baby.     I  must  have  them  for  the  table." 

And  soon  the  little  white -spread  breakfast- 
table,  with  it  rolls  and  fruit,  was  aglow  with 
flowers,  and  a  little  bunch  lay  on  each  plate.  The 
loggia  was  in  festa;  and  the  morning  sun  flick- 
ered through  the  vine-leaves  on  the  bright  table, 
and  the  patterns  of  the  brick  floor. 

"  There — there  they  are  ! — Reggie  ! — Father ! 
— leave  me  a  minute  !  Quick — into  the  garden  ! 
We  will  call  you  directly." 

And  Reggie,  looking  back  with  a  gulp  from 
the  garden-stairs,  saw  her  leaning  over  the  loggia, 
waving  her  handkerchief ;  the  figure  in  its  light 
dress,  tossed  a  little  by  the  morning  breeze,  the 
s(>ft  muslin  and  lace  eddying  round  it. 

They  mounted.     Lucy  entered  first. 

She  stood  on  the  threshold  a  moment,  looking 
at  Eleanor  with  a  sweet  and  piteous  appeal. 
Then  her  young  foot  ran,  her  arms  opened ;  and 
with  the  tender  dignity  of  a  mother  rejoicing 
over  her  child  Eleanor  received  her  on  her 
breast. 

By  easy  stages  Manisty  and  Lucy  took  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  to  England.  At  the  end  of  August 
Lucy  returned  to  the  States  with  her  friends; 
and  in  October  she  and  Manisty  were  married. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  lived  through  the  autumn  ;  and 
in  November  she  hungered  so  pitifully  for  the 
626 


South  that  by  a  great  effort  she  was  moved  to 
Rome.  There  she  took  up  her  quarters  in  the 
house  of  the  Contessa  Guerrini,  who  lavished  on 
her  last  days  all  that  care  and  affection  could 
bestow. 

Eleanor  drove  out  once  more  towards  the 
Alban  Hills;  she  looked  once  more  on  the  slopes 
of  Marinata  and  the  white  crown  of  Monte  Cavo  ; 
the  Roman  sunshine  shed  round  her  once  more 
its  rich  incomparable  light.  In  December  Man- 
isty  and  Lucy  were  expected ;  but  a  week  before 
they  came  she  died. 

A  German  Old  Catholic  priest  journeyed  from 
a  little  town  in  Switzerland  to  her  burial ;  and  a 
few  days  later  the  two  beings  she  had  loved  stood 
beside  her  grave.  They  had  many  and  strong 
reasons  to  remember  her ;  but  for  one  reason 
above  all  others,  for  her  wild  flight  to  Torre 
Amiata,  the  only  selfish  action  of  her  whole  life, 
was  she — at  least,  in  Lucy's  heart — through  all 
the  years  that  followed,  the  more  passionately, 
the  more  tragically  beloved. 


FINIS 


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